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Chapter Text

It was over.

The reign of the Lich King is at an end. His helmet, or rather the Helmet of Domination used to imprison Ner'Zhul, lay dormant a few feet away from him. Frostmourne, the very weapon that slew countless foes, and the blade that determined the current fate of Azeroth as it is today, lay shattered in pieces.

It was a useless effort to try and escape death after bringing it to so many people. His eyes widened, beaming with relief and of fear when he grasped the spectral hand of a man who came to him. The man whom he slayed and brought everything he had worked for to ruin.

"Father!", he cried out. "Is it...over?"

The spectre, or the spirit, smiled warmly at him as he squeezed his hand onto his child whom he loved so dearly. "At long las...no king rules forever, my son."

"I see...only darkness before me..."

The light grew brighter, piercing the veil of shadows that had consumed Arthas' soul for so long. He felt a warmth that had been absent since he first picked up Frostmourne, the runeblade that had led him down his tragic path. His eyes, once cold and lifeless, began to glisten with a flicker of hope. "Father," he murmured, his voice weak but earnest, "Could I...atone?"

Terenas, his ethereal gaze filled with both sorrow and love, replied, "Only the most profound of atonements can balance the scales of your deeds, my son. If your heart truly yearns for it, then perhaps there is a spark within you yet to be kindled."

The light grew more intense, and Arthas' spirit felt as if it was being torn from the cold embrace of the Lich King's dominion. "What must I do?" he desperately asked.

The ghostly king's voice grew solemn. "Ensure that...you would not make the same mistake twice"

The room around them began to distort, the very fabric of the afterlife bending to the will of the divine intervention. The light grew blinding, and Arthas felt a surge of power coursing through him, a power that was not his own, but rather a gift from the cosmos itself. The spirit of Terenas faded, his final words echoing in Arthas' mind, "Consider the choices that you have made, and perhaps, in doing so, you can find a different conclusion."

A pair of green eyes suddenly opened, and he breathed in heavily after feeling the air within him disappear for a few moments. Arthas found himself laying on a bed, rather than the cold concrete of Icecrown Citadel as he knew he should've been. And something was amiss: he wasn't at Northrend.

Rather he was at his own personal chambers. At Lordaeron's Capital City.

He took his time to adjust s of his surroundings, reaching for the silver-framed mirror that once reflected his youthful visage on a table beside his bed. e

Arthas felt his heart stop when his reflection stared back at him, a stark contrast to the one he'd grown accustomed to in his darker days.

Gone was the frostbitten skin, the icy blue tint that had claimed his flesh, and the tattered, corroded armor of the Lich King. Instead, he beheld the image of a man in the prime of his life, clad in a simple tunic and trousers that were his sleepwear. His blond hair, rather than the icy white hue that came after he took Frostmourne was noticeable. His eyes, though weary, was normal. Human. Untainted.

"What...what sorcery is this?" he whispered to himself, the sound of his own voice that wasn't filtered by the power he wielded as the Lich King that he hasn't heard in the past seven or eight years.

He touched his face, feeling the warmth and vitality that had been taken away. He felt the warmth of his palm into his cheek, reminding him that this was not a mere dream or illusion. The room remained silent, other than his breathing as well as the distant activities made by the people of Lordaeron, alive and well as he opened the window. To find all of them unaware and peaceful of the danger that befell them.

It's impossible...

"But how?", he gasped as he could not trust his own mind, not after the torment he had endured and inflicted. Yet, it felt so vivid, so real, that doubt began to waver.

As he stared onto his reflection, familiar memories began to reappear within his mind. Memories that brought him only sorrow and regret as he held the right side of his face.

The murder of his mentor, Uther, the fall of his beloved Kingdom, the burning of Stratholme, and the countless souls he had claimed in the name of the Lich King and of himself. Each memory brought with it a fresh wave of pain and regret, a stark contrast to the unblemished reflection he now beheld.

He breathed out heavily, trying to reconcile the two versions of himself that now existed in the same space. "If this is real...then what am I to do?" he asked the empty room, even though no one would hear him.

The gentle knocking at the door of his quarters brought Arthas back to the present with a jolt. His hand hovered over the hilt of a sword at his side, alarmed. The door creaked open, and a young servant, noticing his Prince's reflection in the mirror, cautiously stepped inside.

"My Prince," the servant began with a slight bow, "His Royal Highness, King Terenas, requests your presence at the banquet hall for the morning meal."

Arthas, though still trying to register what was happening before him, took a moment to compose himself. He felt a strange tug at his heart that he hadn't felt it years after he ripped it out to forsake his humanity. The warmth of his father's company was something he hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity. "Very well," he replied in a steady tone, though it was clear that he sounded weary. "Please inform His Highness that I shall join him shortly."

The servant complied and retreated, closing the door softly behind him. Arthas turned his gaze from the mirror. Did I really come back to where it all began?, he thought to himself for a long moment before he began to prepare. He chose an appropriate attire with care. The boots felt surprisingly light upon his feet, a stark contrast to the heavy, clanking armor of the Lich King.

As he descended the grand staircase, the castle of Lordaeron came alive around him. The scent of baking bread wafted from the kitchens, mingling with the faint aroma of polished metal from the nearby barracks. The murmur of guards and servants, humans rather than the udead minions of the Scourge, went about their duties, and the clank of armor and the rustle of silk from the nobility filled the air. It was the life he knew and had not heard in so long, and it was comforting as it was overwhelming.

As Arthas entered the banquet hall, the grandeur of the room took him aback. The long, ornate table was laden with a feast that could rival the bounty of Azeroth itself, a testament to the prosperity of the kingdom before it had been ravaged by the Scourge.

The Prince felt his heart become heavy approached the table where father, King Terenas, alive and well, sat with a smile that seemed to have never faded. The king looked up, his eyes lighting up at the sight of his son, and beckoned for him to come closer.

Every step Arthas took echoed through the cavernous room like the toll of a funeral bell. He could feel the eyes of the court upon him, a blend of curiosity and wariness. As he reached the high-backed chair next to his father, he paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the ornate wood, feeling the warmth.

"Ah, Arthas," Terenas greeted with genuine warmth and affection, "You're just in time. I was beginning to worry that you'd overslept."

Arthas' chest tightened at hearing him again; the last time he heard his father was his sound of disbelief before he plunged Frostmourne into him that sealed Lordaeron's fate. "Forgive me, father," he managed to speak. "I...I had much to contemplate."

Terenas studied him for a moment. "Of course," he replied. "Our future remains uncertain, which is why we make the best out of it, no matter what lies before it. Nowtake your seat. We have a long day ahead of us."

Arthas complied. As he sat, the chair creaked, and he felt the fabric of time stretch and pull around him. It almost felt alien to be here again, not after everything that had transpired. As he took his place beside his father, a strange feeling of comfort began to seep into him, like a warm embrace from a long-lost loved one.

The same warmth when the spectral figure of Terenas comforted him, when he had every reason not to.

Terenas, noticing that Arthas had not touched a morsel of the feast laid out before them, placed his silverware down with a gentle clink and regarded his son with a furrowed brow. "Is everything all right, Arthas?" he inquired as he is concerned of jim. "You seem...distant this morning. Is there something you wish to discuss?"

Arthas, caught of guard, took a moment to compose himself before speaking. He looked at his father, the man who had who welcomed him back with open arms after he first returned from Northrend, and Arthas couldn't help but avert his gaze, almost not wanting to face him. "It is...nothing, Father," he tightly replied. "I merely had a restless night and find myself a bit out of sorts."

Terenas could figure that his heir had gone through a lot, but he knew better than to press the issue. "Very well," he said with a nod, though his concern did not waver. "If you wish to speak of it, my doors are always open."

Arthas took a deep breath, the scent of roasting meats and freshly baked breads finally reaching his nose, and he picked up his own fork. The food looked so tantalizing, so...real. It had been an eternity since he had tasted anything.

After ripping out his heart, he could distinctively remember no longer needing to eat as his new position as Lich King no longer demanded such sustenance as he is able to live without them.

He took a tentative bite, the flavors exploding on his tongue as if he had forgotten the very concept of taste. It was a strange and alien sensation, yet it brought with it a wave of comfort and nostalgia. The warmth of the food spread through his body, a sensation he had not felt in countless years.

"And how fares your training as a Paladin, my son?" Terenas inquired, breaking the silence.

Arthas paused, the bite of food halfway to his mouth. Training as a Paladin—of course, he was and potentially is still a member of the Silver Hand at this point. Until he suspended them for Stratholme that is.

"It...it goes well, Father," he lied, the words sticking in his throat like bones in a starved beast's maw. "Uther...has taught me well."

Terenas nodded with a smile. "I am pleased to hear it. He is quite eager for your next lesson, you know. He believes you have the potential to become one of, if not the, best among us."

The mention of Uther sent a shiver down the Prince's spine. The image of his mentor, his face twisted in anger and disappointment as Arthas brought Frostmourne down upon him, was burned into his memory.

But here, Uther was still alive, an aging but still valiant defender of Lordaeron as he had done in decades He took a sip of his watered wine, the cool liquid doing little to quench the fire of his inner turmoil.

"Father," Arthas began, needing to clear a few things with Terenas, "I have...seen things that I cannot unsee, felt powers that I cannot untouch." He paused. "I fear that I may not become the King you believe me to be."

Terenas looked at his heir quizzically. "I once have the same thoughts as you have, my son. In every step of the way, no leader is ever born with the natural capabilities.", be professed. "They have to be forged through experience and to be resilient. Give it more time, my son, and you'll be able to become the leader our homeland needed, even if you could not see it for yourself as every leader is defined by by their intentions for the people they lead."

Arthas nodded thoughtfully. Of course, he remembered such as advice when he was first the Crown Prince. But he constantly let his own impulses decide for him.

Once the meal concluded, Arthas pushed back his plate, feeling ready. "I will have to return to my chambers to prepare for the day, Father," he told hm.

Terenas, his gaze still holding that unspoken concern, gave a nod of understanding. "Take your time, my son," he said, his hand resting briefly on Arthas' shoulder. "I only ask you to trust yourself whenever there is a battle that you felt from within."

Arthas went back to his room and approached his wardrobe, looking to find the familiar armor that he wore, unmodified and untainted of the dark gray and skull patterns of a Death Knight. The blue, gold and silver armor he wore in his previous lifetime that is adorned by the symbol of the Kingdom of Lordaeron that he wore in pride. He reached out, his hand brushing against the cool metal, remembering the countless memories he had wearing them.

"Is this truly a second chance?" he murmured to his reflection, sounding uncertain as well as thinking how absurd it sounds. "Or is it a cruel jest of fate, taunting me with what might have been?"

With a sigh, Arthas began to don the familiar pieces of his old life. Each piece felt like a piece of him was being reclaimed from the icy prison of his memories. He grasped Light's Vengeance, the warhammer that had once brought justice to the unjust, feeling its power resonate within him.

Also the same weapon he discarded when he acquired Frostmourne that sealed his fate.

As he fastened the last buckle of his armor, he looked into the mirror, the reflection showing a man torn between two worlds. "What am I to do?" he whispered. "Could I...stop it from happening again?"

There was no reply, other than his memories came flooding back, as well as the countless people he had cared for and loved who lives he snuffed because of his thirst for power and as the Scourge's champion.

He couldn't dwell in the last too much, but that was a task easier said than done. It couldn't have been a mere illusion. "If this is indeed another chance," he murmured, "I have to use it wisely, but I have to be careful."

As he walked, he couldn't help but feel the eyes of his former comrades and subjects upon him,. Yet, it was the memory of Terenas' words that gave him the strength to continue.

"Ensure that...you would not make the same mistake twice"

He took a deep breath...knowing that he had to begin again from where it all began.

Edited: February 10, 2025

Chapter Text

After he had finished preparing, Arthas went to one place he never thought he would come back to again: the Silver Hand's training grounds, where he looked upon several Paladins and Knights training with them. As well as several familiar faces: General Abbendis and his daughter Brigitte, Halakh the Lifebringer, the Paladin Gavinrad who bestowed to him Light's Vengeance, Maxwell Tyrosus, Alexandros Morgraine and his son Darion. Some of whom he may or may not have personally slaughtered himself; he would forget their faces in a sea of numerous kills he had gathered in Frostmourne.

Then Arthas, saw him. Uther the Lightbringer, his mentor, his friend, and the very person whose death he had orchestrated in his relentless pursuit of power. For a moment, Arthas held his breath as he watched Uther speak with Paladins Dagren, Ballador and Magroth, patiently waiting for him to finish his conversation.

A bit nervous, Arthas approached his mentor as soon as his conversation with the three other Paladins. Uther, his gaze sharp and assessing, turned to him, a hint of a smile playing upon his lips. Ah, Arthas," Uther greeted warmly to the young man. "It has been a while since we have properly trained together. How are you, my Prince?"

"I...I am well, Uther," he lied, and he was anything but well. And Uther noticed how troubled his pupil had been but decided to check on him further. "The night's rest did me good."

The Lightbringer's gaze searched his pupil's eyes, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. If there is one thing Arthas knew, Uther knows when he is troubled or not. But this time, it seems, he does not notice. Good," Uther said I'm a gentle tonee. "We have much to catch up to, lad. And a good day of training will help us prepare in case the Orcs decided to go with their routine like the one we had at Strahnbrand."

Arthas nodded, though he felt uncertain at what lies before him as the last match he had with Uther ended with Arthas plunging Frostmourne into him and disposing his father's ashes. Yet, as he looked into his mentor's eyes, the faintest glimmer of hope sparked within him. He had to remember that the future he knew is not completely set.

"I am ready, Uther." Arthas declared with suppressed anticipation, though the tremor remained. "On your call."

Uther nodded with pride. "That is the spirit I expect from a prince of Lordaeron," he remarked, gesturing Arthas to come with him.

The two knights walked onto the training grounds, the cobblestones cool and unforgiving beneath Arthas' booted feet. He watched Uther, his movements fluid and powerful, a paragon of the Light's might. As they drew closer, Arthas felt the eyes of the other Paladins upon him, curious yet wary. He knew that he could not tell them of his true identity, of the horrors he had committed, but he also knew that he could not deceive them indefinitely.

The training commenced with a series of ritualistic warm-ups, the clang of steel against steel resonating through the crisp morning air as Uther led Arthas through a meticulously designed regimen that tested the limits of his physical and spiritual fortitude. Each swing of Light's Vengeance, each swing and parey, was executed with a precision. Uther, ever the observant teacher, noticed that Arthas' skills had sharpened to a razor's edge, his movements now a harmonious dance of power and grace.

"Your eagerness is commendable, Arthas," Uther said, his eyes gleaming with approval as they paused for a brief respite. "I see you have decided to withhold your usual tendencies when we train."

For a moment, Arthas remembered. He had always been the type to be brash and to be impulsive when things aren't going his way. And Arthas realized that he had been eerily calm and focused, something that Uther in the present found surprising

Arthas, sweat beading on his brow, took a deep breath. "Thank you, Uther," he replied, his voice even. "I have... found new purpose in my training. I strive to be the knight you believe me to be."

"I have always believed in you, my prince," Uther said, poising to renew their sparring match. "And I am proud to see you grow into the man I know you are destined to become."

The sparring grew more intense, the rhythm of their combat a silent symphony of clanging metal and grunts of exertion. Arthas' muscles burned with the effort, his mind racing with memories of battles against so many. His eyes never left Uther's, the man whose faith in him had never wavered, even when he had lost his own.

"You fight with the experience of a seasoned warrior," Uther noted, his own breaths coming in measured gasps. "Your technique...it's as if you've faced a hundred battles."

"Perhaps I have," Arthas said, his voice a mix of humor and melancholy. "I have devoted much of my time to personal training, seeking to improve my skills for the sake of our kingdom."

The lie hung in the air, a pall between them that neither dared to acknowledge. Uther looked at his pupil for a moment. Yet, all he found was the unyielding resolve of a man determined to walk a path of light. Satisfied for now, he nodded.

"Your progress is remarkable," Uther said, a hint of amazement in his tone. "Your commitment to the cause does you credit."

The training continued, the sun climbing higher in the sky. As the hours ticked by, Arthas felt the exhaustion of his physical form give way to the endless endurance of his tainted soul. Training with Uther was something he hadn't experienced in a decade, given his current form as a Paladin wielding the Light and not of the eternal frost and decay of a Death Knight and later Lich King.

"Your strength is inspiring," Uther said, his eyes reflecting the fierce pride he felt for his pupil. "It seems you have put into heat where a measure of a Paladin is not in his might, but in the purity of his intent."

Arthas nodded and s they rested, the echoes of their sparring fading into the background, Arthas took a seat on the cold stone bench beside Uther. He leaned heavily on his warhammer, the coolness of the metal a stark contrast to the warmth of the sun that spilled into the training grounds. Uther, handed him a waterskin, which Arthas took gratefully, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. For a moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the distant chirping of birds, a stark reminder of the life that continued beyond the castle walls.

In spite of his current condition, Arthas felt that he needed to speak with someone of his own troubles. Even if he couldn't tell them the truth. He had tried with his father, and perhaps Uther may be able to help him.

"Uther," Arthas began in a weary but earnest tone, "I've...I've seen things, felt power that I never thought possible. Power that could either save or destroy our world." He looked at Uther, seeking understanding, perhaps even guidance. "What is the measure of a man's strength if he succumbs to the very temptations he seeks to conquer?"

Uther regarded him with a solemn gaze, speaking from his own experience. "The pursuit of power has always been treacherous, lad," he said, his tone measured and wise. "One must be vigilant, for power, in and of itself, is neither good nor evil. It is the intent that shapes its use." He paused for a moment, looking at the sky as if it could provide more answrs. "The true measure of a strength lies in his ability to wield power without allowing it to corrupt his soul."

"But what if the path of doing what is right requires us to become the very monsters we fight?" Arthas pressed, though his tone sounded like he had been tormented. Though Uther fortunately didn't notice it. "How can one know where to draw the line between what is necessary and what is...excessive?"

Uther took a deep breath, cupping his chin. "It is a question that has plagued the hearts of many," he admitted, his gaze returning to meet Arthas' own. "Oftentimes, we are blinded to what we perceived as right and the drive to do what is necessary, but often forget the consequences in doing so. The road to damnation is often paved with good intentions, but we cannot allow fear of that path stop us as to where we stood. We must walk it with faith and courage."

The prince nodded thoughtfully. "And if, in the pursuit of what is right, one crosses that line?"

"Then, lad," Uther said, placing a comforting hand on Arthas' shoulder, "it is the responsibility of anyone to seek atonement, to find the strength to correct his or her mistakes if they wish to strive to do what is right." He squeezed Arthas' shoulder gently. "The Light is merciful, but it is also unyielding. It demands that we face our sins, learn from them, and emerge stronger, our faith unshaken."

Arthas leaned back, his eyes closed. "What if the price of power is too high?" he murmured, the question hanging in the air like a specter from his past. "What if the cost of victory is our very souls?"

"Then," Uther said firmly, "we strive to find another way. The ends do not justify the means if the means lead us into darkness." His gaze grew intense, his eyes boring into Arthas' soul. "Even the mightiest of all warriors is naught but a pawn of the void if he forsakes the light within himself."

The two knights sat in silence. Arthas still felt that he was under the shadow of his own past. Yet, with every word from Uther, the warmth grew stronger, a beacon of hope in a world that had once been consumed by shadow.

Arthas nodded solemnly. "Thank you, Uther," he said, his voice a mix of reverence and resolve. "Your wisdom is appreciated in these trying times."

"You are most welcome, Arthas," Uther replied in a gentle tone. "But wisdom is but a tool. It is your heart and your actions that will truly define who your are." He offered a reassuring smile. "Now, we have done enough for today. Your skills have improved markedly, and your dedication does not go unnoticed. Go, rejoin your comrades and share your insights. They would need your help as well, lad."

Arthas rose, breathing a sigh of relief. "I shall," he promised, his gaze lingering on Uther's for a brief moment longer. "I'll see to it that I can be the the man that I strive to be."

Uther's smile grew a touch wider. "I have no doubt," he said. "Do not let the the past cloud the brightness of your future."

With a final nod, Arthas turned and walked away from the training grounds, his booted footsteps echoing through the corridors of the castle. Uther's counsel was helpful, but he knew he needed more than just advice. He needed to act.

The barracks of the Lordaeron Army were bustling with activity as Arthas stepped into the cavernous room. He felt both dread and familiarity as he approached the two figures he knew all too well, Captains Falric and Marwyn. The sight of them alive and well brought a fresh wave of guilt and sorrow, remembering atrocities he had committed in his pursuit of power by turning them into the first Death Knights after him.

"My Prince," Falric said, bowing deeply, his expression one of unblemished respect.

Marwyn mirrored the gesture, his eyes meeting Arthas' with a hint of curiosity. "We are honored by your presence. What brings you to us today?"

Arthas swallowed hard, pushing down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. He could still feel the cold steel of their necks under his grip, the finality of their lives extinguished by his own hand. "I've come to be briefed on the state of our defenses," he replied. "I wish to ensure that we are prepared for any threats that may arise."

Falric, straightened up, focused and compliant. "As you know, the Horde is ever present, but currently, our main concern is the new Warchief, Thrall. A formidable leader, but his intentions seem to be focused on rebuilding his people rather than warring with the Alliance."

Marwyn nodded in agreement. "Our scouts have reported several orcish outposts scattered across the lands, but their numbers are manageable. We believe that our current forces are sufficient to handle any incursions without requiring the intervention of the Royal Guard."

Arthas nodded, at least they don't have to deal with them for now. "Good," he said, his voice even. "Keep me informed of any changes in the situation. We have to be prepared in case of any incursion from any hostile Orc clans."

The two captains exchanged a brief, questioning glance, but Arthas' demeanor was one of authority, and they had no reason to doubt his intentions. "As you command, Your Highness," Falric said, his tone deferential.

Marwyn stepped closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "We've had reports of disturbances in the countryside, however. Banditry and strange creatures have been sighted. It may be prudent to send a patrol to investigate."

"See to it," Arthas ordered. "I will not have our people suffer."

The two captains nodded, saluting before turning to carry out their duties. Arthas watched them go. Of course, he can't tell them of his own past as well. Yet, the sight of them, living and breathing, filled him with determination to prevent the horrors that awaited them.

Another day passed, and Arthas walked through the grand plaza of Lordaeron. The cheerful voices of the townsfolk melded into a cacophony as he approached the fountain, its crystalline waters a stark contrast to the crimson rivers of his past. He sat down on the cold stone edge, the chilly water splashing against his boots as he gazed into the reflection of his human form.

"What have I become?" he murmured to himself. "A prince who gave up his sanity, his honor and his soul. For what?." His eyes searched the surface, seeing not just the gleaming visage of his former self but also the shadows of the countless lives he had claimed in his quest for power.

The memories of Quel'thalas haunted him, the once-beautiful city of the high elves now a desolate wasteland, its citizens either dead or twisted into the Lich King's undying servants. The anguish of the elves' final moments echoed through his mind, a chorus of despair that no amount of power could silence. The screams of the innocents in Dalaran, whose only crime was to stand in his way as he sought the power to bring Archimonde into this world, pierced his soul like the sharpest of arrows. And Lordaeron itself, the gleaming bastion of humanity now a tomb for the very people he had sworn to protect.

The guard's approach was sudden yet expected as he called out, "Prince Arthas! Prince Arthas! The king requests your immediate presence! A delegation from Dalaran awaits you both in the throne room!"

Arthas' hand paused mid-air. He took a deep breath, pushing aside his troubles for the moment. With a nod to the guard, he rose to his feet. "Lead the way," he said, his voice a calm façade that belied the tempest within.

The guard, bowed slightly. "As you wish, Your Highness," he replied, before turning to lead Arthas back through the winding corridors of the castle.

With a final deep breath, he pushed the doors open, the grandeur of the throne room enveloping him like a warm embrace. The delegation from Dalaran, a mix of regal-looking mages in their flowing robes, stood before the throne, heads bowed in respect. His father, Terenas, sat upon the throne, his gaze expectant as he looked upon his son.

As Arthas took his seat beside Terenas, the room fell into a hushed silence, the clank of his armor echoing through the grand chamber. The Archmage, Dalar Dawnweaver, stepped forward with an air of importance. "Your Royal Highnesses," he began, "I come bearing a message from the Council of Six and Grand Magus Antonidas. The mages of Dalaran stand firm in our commitment to the Alliance, and we pledge our full support in these times of unrest."

Terenas nodded gravely. "We are ever grateful for the wisdom and power of the Kirin Tor," he stated. "Your dedication to our cause does not go unnoticed."

Dalar's gaze flickered to Arthas for a brief moment before continuing. "Moreover, we have received troubling reports of a mysterious plague that spreads from the north, one that neither we nor the priests of the Holy Light have been able to fully comprehend or combat. It is unlike anything we have encountered before, and we suspect it may be the work of darker forces."

Arthas felt a chill run down his spine, remembering that this is the time where the plague had begun to spread. He gripped the arm of his chair tightly, but managed to maintain a stoic expression.

Terenas, noticing his son's sudden tension, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We will vigilant," he declared. "We will not let such a scourge threaten our homeland."

Arthas took a deep, calming breath. "Indeed," he agreed, his voice steady once more. "If there is a new threat, then all options available are at the ready. If the plague is dangerous as they claim, then all measures have to seen through, especially if it concerns of infecting farmlands whose grain, if consumed, would prove very dangerous for our people. As well as a possible cure if it could be obtained."

Everyone looked surprised and skeptical at the ominous warning that the Prince had given them. Arthas knew he had to at least try and warn them and that he couldn't simply give them orders as to why. Along with trying to not make a scene that would cause a panic among his people.

The mages nodded in unison. "Your wisdom is appreciated, Prince Arthas," Dalar said with a slight bow. "We shall do everything in our power to aid you in this endeavor."

Terenas offered a warm smile. "Thank you, Archmage. We shall work together to ensure the safety of our people and the continued prosperity of the Alliance."

The delegation from Dalaran shared a few more words of counsel and assurance before taking their leave, their robes fluttering dramatically as they disappeared through the grand doors of the throne room. Arthas remained seated, though he couldn't help but relive the memory of the people consuming the tainted grain at Heartglen, and later that or Stratholme.

"Father," Arthas called out to Terenas, "I believe we should send scouts to investigate these reports before they would prove to be problematic than it already is."

Terenas regarded him with pride. "Indeed, my son," he agreed with him. "Your foresight does not disappoint. We shall act with haste and caution, ensuring that the people of Lordaeron are prepared for whatever may come."

Arthas nodded, his resolve unshaken. "I will personally oversee the preparations," he declared, rising to his feet. "We shall not be caught off guard."

The King watched as Arthas retreated to his quarters, but didn't press on as to what troubled his son.

As he entered his study, Arthas covered his face with both his hands. He knew that Kel'thuzad had played a pivotal role in the spread of the Scourge, the memory of Kel'thuzad's death and his own grim decision to revive the Necromancer by defiling the Sunwell as an ArchLich came flooding back to him.

But still, he knew Kel'thuzad was not the sole architect of his downfall; there were others. The name Mal'Ganis slithered through his thoughts like a venomous serpent. The Dreadlord, a master of deceit and manipulation, had been the one to lure him to Northrend, where Arthas fell into his grasp almost effortlessly because of his haste and impulsiveness to act that led him to their game.

"No," he murmured. "This time, I will not be so easily fooled."

He paced the room. The Dreadlords were known for their cunning, their ability to weave intricate webs of deception and corruption. If Mal'Ganis was involved in this new plague, it would not be a simple matter of cutting one head off the hydra.

"Father," he muttered, "How did I ever allow myself to become the very monster I sought to destroy?"

As he moped, his mind shifted to another individual he had dismissed. The Prophet, once a madman to his father's ears, now seemed eerily prescient. Arthas recalled the cloaked figure's frantic warnings, his eyes wild with a vision of doom that no one else could see. "Perhaps," Arthas whispered to himself, "his ramblings were not madness, but the truth obscured by the fog of time." He had to find out.

The Prophet had been a curious case, speaking in riddles that seemed to dance on the edge of prophecy and insanity. His predictions had been dismissed by the council and the king, but in his heart, Arthas had felt a nagging doubt. Now, with the possibility of a new crisis looming, those words seemed less like the ravings of a lunatic and more like a grim premonition.

"I have to go find him...but where?", he said to himself, staring at the ceiling. Perhaps he may know something that could help us...

He exited his quarters, inwardly hoping that there is a chance that he might appear once more to give his warnings. The castle terrace might be a good place to try and see if decided to come back and nag his father once more, hoping for any useful advice.

Only to find the one person who won his heart, but he broke hers during that one night at the Winter Veil celebrations a few years ago.

It was Jaina Proudmoore, her golden hair catching the early light as it danced in the wind. His heart stopped for a moment, a jolting reminder of the deep bond that had once existed between them, which he severed by the numerous atrocities he had committed all those years ago.

Jaina's smile grew tentative as she noticed the shadow that fell across Arthas' face. Her steps slowed, and she tilted her head slightly and looked concerned for him. "Arthas," she called out softly. The last he heard from her was her pleas to try and reach out to him when she personally assaulted Icecrown on her own to try and get to him, even when it was clear where there was nothing she could do.

Arthas took a deep breath, the memories of before coming back to haunt him still. The memory of Stratholme was a fresh wound, one that had never truly healed despite his transformation. The sight of the burning city, the screams of the innocents he had slaughtered, and the betrayal in Jaina's eyes when she had realized the depth of his descent into madness and her leaving him with Uther. And then there was the assault on Dalaran, where he had stood before the Council of Six, and claimed their lives in a bid for power that only released monstrosities of the deepest nightmares.

He could not even dare to think on what might have happened if Jaina had been with her brethren at the Kirin Tor. Would he have spared her? Or would he have even slaughtered her like the rest to become a thing that he could not imagine. Not even in his deepest nightmares.

As Jaina closed the distance between them, Arthas felt his heartbeat increase twicefold. He took a step back, almost gesturing to her to keep away from him, almost unable to face her. Can she ever forgive me" he wondered, his heart racing as she stopped just before him.

Her gaze was soft yet guarded, her eyes filled with a mix of warmth and wariness. "Are you all right, Arthas?" she asked, her voice a gentle caress that seemed to coax the truth from the very depths of his being.

He swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat like shards of ice. How could he explain it to her? It almost felt wrong for him to speak to her, not after everything he had done to hurt her when it was one of the things that he promised to himself that he wouldn't do."I am...well, Jaina," Arthas replied, his voice strained with the lie. "Merely thinking on what we should do in these troubled times." He offered a small, forced smile, hoping it would be enough to ease her concern.

She looked at him, the warmth in them not quite reaching their usual brilliance. "Yes," she said slowly, "it has been a while since we saw one another." She paused, her expression reading concern for him, but she kept it to herself. "But the rumors of this northern plague have reached even my ears in Dalaran. I have the feeling that it needs our immediate attention."

Arthas nodded solemnly. "Yes, the rumors of a plague are as ominous to say the least," he said, the memory of the Prophet's foreboding words echoing in his mind. "Speaking of omens, have you ever encountered the man who spoke of the shadow that had fallen?"

Jaina's gaze sharpened. "The Prophet, you mean?" she replied, sounding skeptical. "I have heard of him, yes. His visions and warnings have reached even the hallowed halls of Dalaran."

The prince leaned on the railing. "Do you believe there is truth to his words, Jaina?"

The mage's expression softened. "I cannot say for certain," she admitted. "In spite of Master Antonidas' dismissal of his claims, I couldn't help but sense unnatural but powerful energy within him, meaning there might be a hint of truth behind those cryptic prophecies he foretold."

"Could you tell me where he might be found?" he asked, hope coloring his tone. "His insights may hold the key to unraveling this mystery and preventing the shadow from engulfing us all."

Her blue eyes stared at his emerald ones. "He appears and vanishes like a specter," she somberly said to him. "I fear I cannot guide you to him, Arthas. His path is one that not even I can predict or follow."

The prince nodded slowly. "I understand," he said, his voice tight. "But if you ever see him again, could you let me know? I have to speak with him"

Jaina studied him for a moment, her gaze thoughtful and a hint of curiosity shimmering in her eyes. "Your interest in the Prophet is unexpected," she carefully said. "But I will do what I can to aid you."

Arthas felt a twinge of hope, the warmth of Jaina's willingness to help a stark contrast to the icy grip of his guilt. "Thank you, Jaina," he said, his voice earnest. "I just...needed help..."

The mage nodded at him with a small smile. "You're welcome, Arthas. But for now," she continued, "We have to be ready. The rumors of this plague grow louder by the day, and if we are to save our people, we have to act now"

"Yes," Arthas agreed, getting his mind out of the gutter. "I will be bringing along Captain Falric and a contingent of his men to assist us in the investigation. If we can learn what we can as soon as possible, then the sooner we act."

Jaina nodded, her expression turning grim. "The sooner that we can stop it before it grows..."

The two stood there for a moment longer. With a final nod of understanding, Arthas turned to leave, his steps echoing in the stillness of the terrace as he left Jaina to her thoughts. As he walked away, he couldn't help but think of the elusive Prophet, seeing the very truth behind his words.

"I shall not fail you," he murmured under his breath, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "Not again."

Edited: February 10, 2025

Chapter Text

In his room, Arthas had a map in display on his study. His hand traced the path to Stratholme—a place that now haunted him ever now and then. The name Kel'thuzad was written in red ink to show his importance as a marked target. The necromancer and later ArchLich had been his 'friend' as a Death Knight, his confidant, and guide that led him to the life that haunted him still.

"Kel'thuzad," he murmured in contempt. "Though as of now, the Cult of the Damned's leader." He felt the urge to seek him out and crush him beneath his boot right now. But he needed to be careful. As rash decisions would mean greater consequences.

"Should I slay him where he stands, as I would a beast?" Arthas spoke aloud in deep thought. "Or should I bring him before the Silver Hand or the Kirin Tor to make him talk?"

If he killed Kel'thuzad and destroyed his corpse, then they would be sure that the Legion would not be summoned, but then he wasn't acting alone in this scheme. But if he captured him, they would be able could extract the knowledge needed to prevent another catastrophe.

He took a deep breath, deciding to try his hand. "I will bring him here if necessary." He scribbled a note beside Kel'thuzad's name: "Kill or Capture and Interrogate."

Right after that, his mind came to the thought of him needing to find the Prophet, to understand the true extent of his prophecies as it had helped Jaina and the others before.

He wrote another name: Baron Rivendare. He had served under Kel'thuzad during his stint of being a member of the Cult of the Damned before becoming one of the Four Horsemen. Kel'thuzad had often spoken of Rivendare with a twisted sense of admiration. The baron was a man of wealth and influence, a figure of respect in the city of Stratholme, and yet he chose to serve the Scourge by using his influence and power to have the infected grain stored in the city. He had to play it carefully. Arresting him without evidence would only serve to alert Kel'thuzad and risk their mission.

"To expose him, I need proof of his treachery.", he said to himself. The prince leaned heavily on the desk. "How many others are there?" he wondered aloud. "How deep does Kel'thuzad's influence run?" The thought of him reach made him feel ill.

"For now, I need to keep an eye on him and learn what I could.", he decided for the meantime.

He knew he could not face Jaina, his father or Uther with half-truths and suspicions. No, he would need solid evidence, a clear understanding of their plan.

Arthas paused, the tip of his quill hovering over the map as he etched the name "Mal'Ganis" in the corner of the page. The foul memory of the Dreadlord's treacherous smile surfaced, a specter from his darkest hours. The demon had been the architect of his fall, a deceitful guide that had led him straight to the Lich King's icy embrace. If he could prevent the same fate from befalling his people, perhaps he could find a semblance of peace. "If I can ensure Mal'Ganis's demise in Stratholme," he murmured, "It would stem the tide of the plague before it can spread further." Arthas knew better than to act on impulse. He needed a plan, a way to intercept Mal'Ganis in some way, though this would no doubt alert his 'brothers' within the Nathrezym.

If Mal'Ganis was indeed dead, then they would likely send another in his stead—Tichondrius, perhaps, Dreadlord who had served as the Burning Legion's liaison during the Third War.

"No," Arthas said aloud. "I can't allow that to happen. I must find a way to cut off the head of the snake before it grows new fangs." He stared at the map, his eyes tracing the path from Lordaeron to the plague-ridden city. "But how?"

WithArthas scribbled the name "Stratholme" onto the map. The very thought of the city brought back the cacophony of screams and the acrid smell of burning flesh that had filled the air on that fateful day. The haunting image of his civilians, once loyal to the bone, now twisted into mindless abominations under the influence of the very plague he had sought to contain. He had been a prince of the Alliance then, a beacon of hope, but his desperation had led him to make the ultimate sacrifice—his own humanity.

If he could not find a way to stop the spread of the plague without resorting to the extreme measures he had taken before, the very heart of the kingdom would be lost. The thought of his people starving, suffering the same fate as those in Stratholme, was almost too much to bear.

"The grain," he whispered. "I had to reach it before it reaches the city." He thought as he needed to head to Andorhal where he first met Kel'thuzad .

He looked upon the map, his finger tracing the path from the city to the capital. "An evacuation," he murmured. "We have to get the people out before it is too late." The idea was absurd at best, but it's the best option he could think off.

He imagined the chaos that would ensue, the desperate cries of the innocents as they were torn from their homes, and the resistance that would come along with it. But not all is lost. With the help Kirin Tor, they could potentially detect the early stages of the plague's corruption, allowing for a more targeted approach to containment. The thought of separating families, of isolating the infected from the untouched, was something that he frowned upon

He slammed his fist onto the desk. "But it is not the same," he said aloud. "This time, it is not about purging the city with fire. It is about saving lives."

Turning to the map, Arthas knew would need to enlist the help of the Silver Hand, but trying to explain this to Uther would be challenging. But between the choice of purging the city and burning it to the ground or having its civilians safe and properly checked, he might be swayed to help.

Arthas picked up the quill once more and, angrily scribbled the name. "Frostmourne" in bold, angry letters across the map, at the North. "That accursed weapon," he growled. "It must be destroyed. It is the root of all this suffering."

He took a deep breath and continued to plan. Frostmourne's destruction was paramount, but he knew he could not leave it to fate. He had to be proactive, to make sure that the weapon that had once held the power of the Lich King could never be used again to corrupt another soul. His thoughts turned to Muradin Bronzebeard, the dwarf he had encountered in Northrend, whose fate was intertwined with his own.

"Muradin," he murmured. "I need to find him, and together, we will destroy that wretched sword." His meeting with the dwarf back then was of pure coincidence, and he knew that the Dreadlords have something to do with it given as to how it seemed to add up altogether.

Of course, he brushed those aside for a moment. Because he wasn't the Death Knight nor Lich King yet. He was still the Crown Prince. He needs to focus what's happening now. But that's easier said than done.

He added a few more notes to the map, detailing the potential locations where Muradin, his Lieutenant Baelgun Flamebeard, and his company might be found at Northrend.

He had to think thoroughly, anticipate every move, and be ready to adapt at a moment's notice.

Arthas leaned heavily on the edge of the desk. His former life as a Death Knight and the Lich King was a double-edged sword, since it allowed him to anticipate the the moves of his former comrades in the Scourge, but it didn't provide him comfort. The leadership of the undead hordes, though often seen as mindless, were shrewd and ruthless in their execution of war. Kel'thuzad, the Necromancer and future Arch Lich, and the Dreadlords like Tichondrius and Mal'Ganis made up for it.

"They will have anticipated this," he murmured to himself. "But perhaps... perhaps there is a weakness I have overlooked, a chink in the armor of their endless conquest."

With that, Arthas knew that his best course of action was to play into their hands, allowing them to believe that he was still the prince they know, driven by his unwavering belief in justice. It was a risky gambit, but one that might just grant him the opportunity to strike where they least expected it. He had to tread carefully, lest he reveal his true intentions and alert them

He sat back down in his chair. "They will expect me to seek out the grain shipments, to try and prevent the spread of the plague," he murmured. "But what if...what if I instead make it appear as though I am embracing my former role?"

He knew that the undead would not be fooled easily. They would be watching him closely, waiting for the moment he slipped up. But he was determined to use their expectations against them.

The sudden knock at the door startled Arthas, and he hastily concealed the map within the compartment, placing a nearby banner over it.

"Enter," he called out. The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing Captain Falric who stepped inside and is seeking out his prince.

"Your Highness," Falric began. "The men are assembled and ready to proceed with the investigation of the plague's source as you ordered."

Arthas took a moment to compose himself. "Good," he responded, his voice measured. "I will join you shortly. Ensure that all precautions are taken. We need to be prepared for the worst."

Falric nodded. "As you wish, my prince. I have informed them of your instructions—discretion and vigilance are of the utmost importance." With a nod, he turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft thud.

Arthas then called for Captain Marwyn. The younger knight arrived swiftly as he approached the prince's chamber. "Your Highness," he said with a firm salute.

The Prince nodded curtly, gesturing for the captain to enter. "Marwyn," he began in a focused tone. "I have received disturbing reports of suspicious activity in Stratholme. I need you to take command of the garrison there immediately and investigate these matters with the utmost discretion."

Marwyn's brow furrowed in confusion. "But, my prince, the city is secure under Baron Rivendare's watch. What could be amiss?"

"I cannot say for certain," Arthas lied. "But I have reason to believe that Rivendare may be involved in dealings with...outside forces. Forces that threaten our people." He paused. "You have to be vigilant, my friend. Knowing outside forces, there is not telling what they have in store for us."

Marwyn, though puzzled, knew better than to question his prince in matters of strategy. "As you wish," he complied. "I will depart at once and keep a watchful eye on the baron."

"Good," Arthas was pleased. "But do not engage him unless absolutely necessary. I suspect there is more at play here than we can fathom, and I would not have us act rashly."

Marwyn nodded. "Understood, Your Highness. But what if the situation worsens?"

Arthas took a moment to think. "Prepare for an evacuation of Stratholme," he finally said. "I will let you know when you are to evacuate the people of Stratholme and secure the city."

Marwyn's eyes widened at the severity of the order, but he did not waver. "Your will be done," he said firmly.

With that, Captain Marwyn left, and Arthas stared at the now-empty space, He knew he had not revealed everything to his trusted captain, but the truth was too great a risk. The Lich King's influence stretched far and wide, and the fewer who knew of his true identity, the better.

In the next morning, Arthas stood alongside Captain Falric and the contingent of knights he had mustered. They were enough for the investigation, and should be able to handle what is waiting for them.

Still, he felt uneased. Because this is the very day when he first encountered the plague. And him crossing paths with that Necromancer.

Falric broke the silence. "My prince, it's odd that the Syndicate hasn't made a move against us yet. They're not known for their patience or their hospitality to the Alliance."

Arthas nodded solemnly. "Of course," he murmured, his thoughts racing through the labyrinth of his memories. "But perhaps their inaction is a strategic choice. If they had attacked us, it would have brought swift retribution from the Alliance."

Feeling they have waited for too long, Falric asked. "Prince Arthas, we've been waiting here for hours. Are you sure this friend of yours is coming?"

Arthas only gave him an assuring nod with confidence. "I'm sure. Jaina usually runs a little late."

It felt strange for Arthas in that moment. Because that is how he remembered how their conversation went the last time.

The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder, interrupting the tension-filled silence. "Prince Arthas, it seems we have company," he said, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

The figure grew closer, and the early morning light revealed to be Jaina but just as she was going to arrive, two ogres came at her where she immediately summoned Water Elemental where it surged forward. The creature staggered back, in anger. "Looks like I don't need saving after all," she called out for him.

Arthas couldn't help but smile at her. "I wouldn't want to keep a lady waiting," he remarked before charging at the second ogre with Light's Vengeance aloft. The warhammer found its mark at the ogre's torso, sending it flying several feet away.

With the ogres dealt with, Falric and the knights approached Jaina. "Falric, this is Lady Jaina Proudmoore," the Prince introduced. "A member of the Kirin Tor and one of their most talented mages."

Falric his head in a respectful nod. "It is an honor, Lady Proudmoore," he professed. "Your reputation precedes you."

Jaina's smiled at this. "Thank you.", she said. "But it can wait until we've seen this through." 

"The plague," Jaina began as they rode through the verdant countryside. "Our sources have traced its origins to the lands north of here. It seems to be moving swiftly along the King's Road, ravaging every village it touches."

Arthas nodded. "The pattern of its spread suggests a deliberate and calculated effort," he spoke with feigned ignorance. "But what could be the motive?"

Jaina looked thoughtful. "The only lead we have is the name of the one who is rumored to be orchestrating this."

"Kel'thuzad.", Arthas plainly stated, and Jaina confirmed with anod. "I heard of him. He once a member of the Kirin Tor, was he not?"

Jaina's eyes widened with surprise. "How do you know that, Arthas?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. Because no one outside the Kirin Tor knew about it.

Caught off guard by his own slip, Arthas quickly recovered. "Rumors," he said with a shrug. "They are as plentiful as the grains of sand on a beach. One hears many things in the halls of power."

Jaina studied him for a moment. Then she nodded, accepting his explanation. "Yes, Kel'thuzad was one of the Council of Six," she lamented. "But he was expelled for his interests in necromancy and other vile experiments that compelled Antonidas in doing so."

"What kind of mage was Kel'thuzad?" Arthas asked. He knew the answer all too well, but hearing it from Jaina's perspective might give out something new.

"He was once among the most talented and respected," she began with a sigh. "Even Master Antonidas thought highly of him. But Kel'thuzad's thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and it led him to dabble with necromancy and dark magic. His spells... they were of a foul nature," she continued. "They drew power from the very fabric of life itself, twisting it into something else that it shouldn't be."

The group passed through the village, the cobblestone streets lined with cheering citizens. Children waved makeshift banners crafted from strips of cloth, and the elderly offered silent nods to the knights who rode by. The smiles and well wishes were quite strange. The looked around for any sign of the plague reaching them. But the more they ventured deeper into the village, it became clear that they're unaffected at best.

"It seems your arrival has brought more than just military might," Jaina observed, her. "The people here look...healthy. Hale even."

Arthas nodded. "Yes," he said, his voice carrying a hint of wonder. "It's almost as if...as if the very air here is untouched by the corruption that spreads."

Falric spoke up next. "Perhaps we've arrived in time," he suggested. "Maybe the plague hasn't reached these lands yet."

"Still, we have to be on guard," he whispered,. "The plague can be a fickle beast, lying dormant before it strikes without warning."

The group moved along the other side of the river. Recognizing the scenario before him, he called out to Captain Falric, "Raise your shields! We're walking into an ambush!"

Falric and his knights, baffled by the sudden command, obeyed without question, raising their gleaming shields in unison. Just as the metal met the air, a hail of arrows rained down upon them from the cliffs above. The knights braced themselves, their shields shuddering under the relentless assault. Meanwhile, Jaina's eyes widened with surprise as she quickly conjured a barrier of shimmering ice around her and Arthas. The projectiles shattered against the magical wall, the shards of ice glinting in the sunlight like a thousand tiny stars.

"Your intuition is uncanny, Arthas," Jaina exclaimed, her voice strained with the effort of maintaining the barrier. "How did you know?"

Arthas replied with a grim set to his jaw. "Because I've seen this before," he said. "We move with caution. We're out of horseback range, but we're not safe yet."

One of the Footmen called out. "Undead archers in front of us!"

Jaina raised her staff skyward and called upon a tempestuous maelstrom of hail erupted from the clear blue sky, raining down upon the skeletal archer. The clatter of bone and the shatter of brittle limbs filled the ravine as the undead assailants were torn apart by the relentless onslaught of ice and stone.

Arthas, seeing an opportunity, took a leap from the safety of their position, soaring over the heads of his companions. He brought Light's Vengeance down upon the nearest skeletal archer, the hammer's holy might shattering the creature into a hundred frostbitten fragments. Each step he took sent shockwaves through the earth, his power and purpose unmistakable. He moved with the grace of a dancer, yet the force of his blows was that of an enraged titan.

Falric gook stock of the situation and bellowed orders to his men. "Push forward!" he roared, and the knights surged forward, their shields held high, forming an impenetrable wall of steel. As the storm of ice pummeled the archers from above, Falric and his knights crashed into the remaining undead, their swords and warhammers ringing out with the rhythmic symphony of battle. Each blow resonated with the fury of a thousand souls seeking vengeance against the unholy scourge.

The archers, now in disarray, tried to regroup. Jaina continued to weave her spells, a blizzard of frost enveloping the cliffside, sending more skeletons to their final rest. Arthas, his heart pounding with the exhilaration of combat, tore through the undead ranks, his warhammer leaving a trail of shattered bone and frost in its wake.

"Keep pressing!" he called out to his allies. "We cannot let them regroup!"

Falric spurred forward, his men in tow. They charged into the fray with the ferocity of a stampede, their boors thundering like the approach of doom itself. The remaining archers, now surrounded and outmatched, fell swiftly to the gleaming swords of the kingdom.

As the last skeletal archer crumbled into dust, the hailstorm abated, and the air grew eerily still. The group took a moment to catch their breaths. Falric's knights looked to Arthas, their eyes filled with a mix of admiration and awe, whispering among themselves of the prince's uncanny foresight.

Jaina, her breath steaming in the cold air, turned to Arthas, a hint of suspicion in her gaze. "How did you know, Arthas?" she asked. "How could you anticipate such an ambush?"

Arthas looked at her. "I just have a feeling," he said simply, keeping his first hand experience with it a secret. "And that the enemy are bound to be waiting for us."

The group reassembled and pressed forward As the group approached the grainery, the stench of decay and disease grew stronger, permeating the air like a miasma of despair. Jaina's eyes narrowed as she dismounted from her horse, her staff crackling with the power of the frost. She approached the crates with a cautious stride. Falric and his knights followed suit, their expressions a mix of confusion and concern as they observed the mage.

"This grain...it's infected," Jaina gasped in disgust. "The very essence of life has been corrupted, twisted ehen." She turned to Arthas, her gaze intense. "Those crates bear the regional seal of Andorhal, the distribution center for the northern boroughs. If this grain can spread the plague, there's no telling how many villages might be affected.

Arthas saw it as well and he had a location to head into. "We need to act now," he said, his voice firm, and he turned to his Captain. "Falric, have your men set fire to the grain."

Falric, ever loyal, nodded and began to relay the order. However, his curiosity got the better of him. "But, my prince," he began, "why burn the food? Surely, we can find a way to purify it, to save it for our people?"

Arthas' jaw clenched as he watched the knights begin to pile the crates into a bonfire. "The taint is not easily cleansed," he explained to him. "Burning it is the surest way to prevent its spread."

Jaina, her eyes never leaving Arthas, stepped closer. "You speak with a certainty that suggests...you've encountered this before," she softly said. "What aren't you telling us, Arthas?"

Hearing that statement narrowed his eyes a bit, and he remained steadfast in his deception. "It is merely a precaution," he assured her. "No one would be able to use it for any purpose that would bring harm to my people."

The first flame licked the wood, catching the dry timber with a fierce hunger. The fire spread rapidly, illuminating the grim faces of the knights as they worked. Falric looked to Arthas, his gaze questioning. "Is there anything else we should know?"

Arthas' expression was calm as he turned to the burning grain. "Only that there are others infected," he said simply. "And we have to make sure that what happened to these fields does not happen to our people."

The fire grew into an inferno Arthas felt a pang of regret, knowing that the very lands he had sworn to protect were now marred by the same plague again. "We move on," he stated as he looked at the inferno. "The source of this plague has to be found at once."

Chapter Text

Marwyn had finally arrived to Stratholme, seeing it lively and business going as usual. He couldn't get as to why Prince Arthas had given him orders to investigate, but he wasn't going to protest his orders any way when his tone was evident that something is terribly wrong.

He surveyed the bustling marketplace and the faces of the townsfolk, trying to find any sign of anything amiss as his Prince had told of them. But all he saw are civilians going by their day, seemingly unaware of the danger around them. Whatever that danger is.

The captain went to the local tavern called the Rusty Anchor, to try his luck in gaining anything useful. As he pushed open the heavy wooden door to find the patrons, mostly soldiers and merchants, turned to look at the newcomer for a brief moment.

Marwyn approached the bar, the bartender saw hima burly dwarf with a thick beard and a kind smile, wiped his hands on his apron. "Welcome, stranger," he boomed. "What brings you to our fair city?"

The captain leaned in to introduce himself. "I am Captain Marwyn of the Royal Guard," he said, showing his rank and insignia. "I have orders from Prince Arthas to oversee the security of your grain shipments."

The dwarf was surprised as he was intrigued. "The prince? And why would he be concerned with our grain?"

Marwyn chose his words carefully. "It's a precaution. We have reports of... contamination elsewhere. I'm merely ensuring that Stratholme's supplies remain untainted."

The tavern owner was understandably concerned. "Contamination?" he whispered as a means for anyone to not hear it. "And what would you be needing from us?"

"Only your cooperations" Marwyn assured him. "When the next shipment arrives, it would he under heavy guard, and no one is to touch it without authorization. It's for the safety of the city."

The owner grew skeptical. "Heavy guard? And what if we need that grain to feed our people?"

"You'll be compensated and you'll have it soon, I promise. But for now, we must ensure its purity." He placed a handful of silver coins on the counter. "For your troubles."

The dwarf's hand hovered over the coins, his eyes flicking between Marwyn and the silver. "Very well," he said with a nod. "But if we don't see this through, I'll be holding you personally responsible."

Marwyn nodded gravely. "I understand, and I assure you, the prince's orders are for the good of the city."

The dwarf turned away to serve another customer. As Marwyn moved through the tavern, he felt like people were staring at him and are wary, and he could not blame them. He couldn't risk causing a panic amongst locals so he had to keep it down.

Marwyn took a seat and ordered a mug of ale, drinking until he noticed a couple of officials talking amongst themselves They were dressed in the livery of the House of Barov, a wealthy family with several holdings from their name.

"The baron's orders are clear," one of them stated. "The grain had to reach Lordaeron by week's end."

"But the shipments are already under guard by orders of the Prince," his companion whispered. "How do we explain moving it without alerting the others?"

Marwyn leaned in, feigning disinterest. "It's the special kind of grain," the first man explained. "The kind that keeps the soldiers fighting. The kind that keeps our coffers full."

The second man snorted into his drink. "If it's so special, why isn't the whole city getting a taste?"

His partner looked around for anyone to hear them. "It is for them," he said. "We'll have to wait before the distribution order is given."

This does not sound any good..., Marwyn thought as continued to listen.

"Them?" the second man scoffed. "You mean the royalty? They'll get fat while we starve?"

The first man shushed his companion. "Keep it down," he hissed. "You know the consequences of speaking out of turn."

Marwyn took a slow sip again. The mention of 'special kind of grain' and 'consequences' had his attention fully. He had to find out more without arousing suspicion as he leaned back but his ears remained sharp.

"The folks from Barov is in this up to their necks," the first man continued. "They've got the means to move it, and they're keeping it hush-hush. We just do our part, and we're well paid for it."

The Barov family, working with Baron Rivendare, whom his Prince was already suspecting, is a new one. Meaning they're planning something intriguing as it is sinister.

The second man leaned in curiositydespite his earlier skepticism. "But why would the baron want to keep it secret?"

"I don't ask questions. I just do as I'm told.", his partner replied.

Marwyn took a moment to think. If the Barov family was indeed involved, it meant a greater link to whatever dealings that Rivendare allegedly reported. His first instinct was to report this back to Arthas immediately. But first, he needed more information.

Marwyn exited the tavern shortly after, making his way to the stairs to the battlements of Stratholme's fortifications. Below him, his men moved in on setting up the makeshift camp that would serve as an evacuation point his Prince had ordered. The very idea of evacuating an entire city was something he found bizarre given that the people seemed fine and that no external threats are reported. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry, especially after hearing that those two were talking about.

The guards patrolling the walls were tense as if expecting an enemy to emerge at any moment. The townsfolk, though seemingly unaware of the impending crisis, carried on with their lives like every other day.

Marwyn sighed, wondering how he could even explain this to anyone that came across this. Especially if it came from Uther or King Terenas himself.

Elsewhere, Arthas and the group moved silently through the forest that surrounded the outskirts of Alterac. Jaina, ever perceptive, noticed a subtle change in Arthas' posture, his hand tightening around his warhammer as he looked upon on a distant figure.

She looked to find the unmistakable silhouette of Kel'thuzad, the necromancer, speaking with his fellow cultists. The sorceress could feel the energy enamating from him, feeling as if it was more toxic compared to the nauseating essence she had felt from him when she first met him during her third year in studying.

"What is it?" she whispered, seeing Arthas looking like a serpent preparing to strike.

Without taking his eyes off Kel'thuzad, Arthas answered her. "The necromancer is speaking with his cultists. Likely involving their operations of the infected grain we're dealing with.

"But surely he knows we're onto him," she whispered back. "What more can we learn?"

Arthas took a moment to think of his choice of words. "Anything we could learn from him. Names, locations and motives," he replied. "Any of those would help a lot more than we bargain for."

The two signaled for their companions to come over to listen, with Falric guiding them carefully. The conversation was clear enough to hear what the necromancer was saying.

"The Baron Rivendare is playing his part well" Kel'thuzad remarked in convenience. "The grain is being secured and enroute for transport."

Arthas' eyes narrowed. He had known the Baron of his treachery from his previous life, but to what extent?

"And the prince?" one of his minions inquired.

The necromancer chuckled. "Do not concern yourself with Prince Arthas. His recent orders to seize and guard the grain shipments are but a minor setback. Our plan is already in motion, and his suspicions will only serve to hasten our timetable."

Jaina and Falric exchanged a concerned look with shock. Arthas had not mentioned this order to anyone. "What is this that they speak of, Prince Arthas?", Falric asked. "Why would you not inform us of such critical matters?"

"There are things that even I cannot share with everyone yet," he simply replied while forcing himself to remain composed. "But know that I do this for the good of the kingdom."

The necromancer continued. "Make sure the grain reaches its destination before anyone else discovers the truth. Our master shall not be displeased by mere obstacles to his plan"

The snap of a twig underfoot pierced the silence. Kel'thuzad's eyes darted towards the source of the sound, his expression twisting into a snarl as he recognized the presence of uninvited guests. A careless footman had stepped too heavily on the brittle underbrush, and the resulting crack echoed through the clearing.

"We've been discovered, my brothers!", he exclaimed with urgency. "Flee and continue with the operation!"

As the rest of his kin fled, Kel'thuzad's staff thumped the ground where several skeletons armed with weapons rose to his command. And behind him, a gruesome creature with sown corpses as it's body roared in complete hunger and rage as it saw the incoming intruders. "I'm sorry I can't stay and chat, but... duty calls", he said in a carefree tone before moving away to join in his men.

The Prince's eyes narrowed as he recognized the twisted, grotesque form of the Abomination lumbering towards them. Without a word, he drew Light's Vengeance, the weapon's gleaming silver light piercing the gloom of the forest. Jaina, her expression of determination, summoned forth a water elemental, its icy blue form crackling with energy.

"Falric, take your men and deal with the skeletons ," Arthas ordered. "We'll handle the the larger one." Falric nodded without question when he and his men charged into the fray, clashing against theskeletal warriors.

Arthas and Jaina, their focus solely on the Abomination, stepped into the clearing. The creature, swung its massive arms, each blow capable of cleaving a man in two. Arthas, with the grace of a seasoned warrior, danced around the creature's clumsy attacks, his hammer striking true with every swing, sending showers of putrid flesh and bone flying.

Jaina, conjured a hailstorm, the burning ice shards peppering the Abomination's stitched flesh. The creature roared in pain, its movements momentarily staggered. Arthas saw the opening and took it, leaping into the air and bringing Light's Vengeance down with a thunderous crash upon the beast's skull. The impact sent a tremor through the ground, and the Abomination stumbled, its undead eyes fixed on the prince with a malevolent glare.

"Jaina," Arthas called out to her, seeing their chance, "now!"

The sorceress nodded, her hands weaving through the air in a pattern. The water elemental surged forward, its liquid form solidifying into a spike of pure ice that shot towards the creature. Arthas timed his next strike with precision, hammering into the Abomination's chest just as the frozen spike pierced its back.

The Abomination let out a guttural scream, its form beginning to falter under the combined onslaught. Yet, it remained standing, but weakened.

"Together," Arthas shouted, his voice cutting through the din of combat. "Finish it now!"

Jaina nodded as she concentrated. She hurled a fiery projectile at the creature, and as it recoiled, Arthas saw the perfect opportunity. He swung his hammer with all his might, the holy light blazing forth, striking the Abomination's weakened point where the ice spike had lodged.

The creature shuddered, its unnatural life force fading before their eyes. With a final, desperate roar, it toppled to the ground, its form dissolving into a pool of dark, foul liquid.

Arthas and Jaina stood panting, their weapons still poised for battle. Falric and his men had successfully routed the skeleton warriors, with the Captain's sword beheading the last ghoul that charged at him.

With a nod from his Prince, Falric and his men moved to incinerate granary Arthas took a moment to relax, before he straightened himself up. "We have to hurry." he urged to his companions. "Kel'thuzad is making his way to Andorhal where the infected shipment is bound to leave to major cities throughout Lordaeron."

Jaina, her chest heaving from the exertion of battle, stared at Arthas for a moment. "How could you possibly know where they are heading?" she asked in curiosity and of wonder.

Arthas met her gaze. "If spreading the plague is their goal, then it would make sense for them to go there, especially since Andorhal is major supply route and base for them to use."

A straightforward lie is better than a complicated truth in these circumstances, as much as Arthas grew to dislike it.

Falric approached his Prince,. "Your Highness, our men are exhausted. We have rest and regroup before we can pursue the necromancer."

Arthas looked around, and it was clear that they needed to rejuvenate their strength from what just happened. He looked at Jaina next, and it was clear that she was in agreement of that notion.

Arthas sighed and submitted to their concerns. But the thought of Kel'thuzad escaping, of the plague spreading further, fueled his need for haste. "Very well," he conceded. "We shall rest for a brief reprieve. But come dawn, we ride for Andorhal."

The camp grew quiet as the soldiers tended to their injuries and settled down for a few precious hours of sleep. Arthas, however, found no peace. He sat by the fire, his eyes unfocused as the flames danced in the reflection of his polished armor.

As the trio huddled around the flickering campfire, the weight of the information they had uncovered hung heavily in the air. Falric, his eyes dark with concern, spoke first. "What do we do with this knowledge of Baron Rivendare's treachery?"

"Marwyn is already watching him closely at Stratholme.", Arthas replied. "But we can't risk alerting Rivendare or Kel'thuzad to our suspicions."

Jaina leaned forward. "What of Uther or asking Terenas?" she asked. "Should we not inform him of what we know?"

Arthas shook his head. "Not yet," he replied. "We have no solid proof to present to him. Besides, we have to make sure that the grain shipments are secured first. If we act prematurely, we may do more harm than good."

Falric, ever the loyal knight, nodded in understanding. "As you command, Prince Arthas."

The Prince nodded. "Rest well, my friends," hetold them. "We have much to do on the morrow." With that, he strode into the surrounding forest, leaving Falric and Jaina to ponder what was ro come.

Jaina watched Arthas go with frown marring her otherwise serene features. "Falric," she began, "I think something is amiss with Arthas."

The captain agreed with her. "Indeed," he said. "His eagerness to prevent a catastrophe is commendable, but his... secrets are troubling."

The mage sighed. "It's as if he's fighting against something we can't see," she murmured. "An invisible enemy that haunts his every step."

"We have to trust in his intentions," he said, though the doubt in his voice was clear. "But we must also be prepared for the worst."

The two of them sat in silence for a long moment. The way Arthas spoke and act was troubling to say the least but nothing that would indicate that something is terribly wrong with him, at the moment.

Finally, Jaina spoke. "What is he hiding from us?" she wondered aloud. "Why do you think he felt the need to dl it alone?"

Falric leaned back. "Whatever it is,", he spoke. "I believe it is something that he saw that he only knows."

Chapter Text

Arthas needed time to think. And he did so by leaning against a tree of this recent work together.

To intercept infected grain while trying to maintain secrecy from Falric and Jaina regarding his true intentions were tasks that are easier said than done. And he knew that any wrong move would break that trust.

Having to relive the last seven years of his life after falling at Icecrown is something else. With that regard, every movie he made count if he wished to make sure none of those things happen again.

Until something caught his eye walking along the path he was in. A robed figure walking by the same road near the trees as he does.

The Prince approached the familiar figure, holding what appeared to be a staff. "You've come far, young prince," he remarked taking a few steps close to him. "May I speak to you?

Arthas carefully moved closer, feigning ignorance of his identity. "Are you whom they call the Prophet? The same one that gave warnings to the likes of the King and Grand Magus Antonidas?"

The man's smile grew knowing though he appeared a bit saddened. "I am the one who warned your father, Terenas, of the coming storm," he revealed. "And have done the same to Antonidas." He looked upon the horizon before him. "Unfortunately, my warnings fell on deaf ears. The world would pay a steep price for their neglect."

"Your words are cryptic, stranger," Arthas replied, careful as to not reveal too much information. "Your warnings are troubling," he added, "but what do they have to do with what's happening now?"

The Prophet looked at Arthas. "This land, I'm afraid, is doomed," he sadly stated. "If you wish to save your people, you must look westward. There lies the salvation of your kingdom and perhaps, the world itself."

Kalimdor, he thought, a landmass that most didn't even believe existed. Where the Legion would make their way to Mt. Hyjal. Jaina had been there with a sizeable human expeditionary force when she listened to the Prophet. The only reason why the Legion had been defeated and of Archimonde's death in his previous life, was because the Alliance, the Horde and the Night Elves banding together to stop him.

"Your words are... troubling," Arthas stated while maintaining a calm demeanor to not give away his thoughts. "But they do not fall entirely on deaf ears. The plague that came upon is a grave risk, one that acts as another piece of a greater puzzle made by them."

The Prophet nodded. "You stand at a crossroads, my prince," he warned. "Choose wisely if the choice is presented to you."

Arthas swallowed hard. "Your warnings do hold merit." He paused go think a bit kore. "Yet, as we stand, our immediate concern lies with the undead and the plague. I would first have to deal with the blight before we could make our way west."

The Prophet nodded in approval. "Your priorities are wise, young Prince. Take the time you need, but you make haste once it is concluded. "The choices that we all make define the very answer of then upon us."

The former Lich King would want nothing more than that last part to happen. He could not say wether or not a part of the Lich King remained with him when he was brought back or an internal delusion manifested by his memories.

"I'll keep that in mind," Arthas assured him. "Once settled, I will return to Lordaeron and inform my father of your words, hopefully he would see reason. We will act with haste, but also with caution."

The Prophet looked at him inquisitively as if he knew that lies ahead for the Prince. Tread lightly, my prince," he adviced. "The shadows are long, and the darkness has a way of creeping into even the most steadfast hearts."

Arthas nodded. "I will not forget your counsel," he assured the robed man. "And when the time is right, I shall do all in my power to prevent the danger you foretell."

The Prophet nodded once, appearing satisfied. "Then may the light guide your steps and your heart remain true," he said before turning away, his form turning into a large raven before flying away.

After that, Arthas made his way back to the camp where he saw campfire grew brighter as he approached. Falric looked exhausted as he kept watch but brightened upon seeing his Prince returning.

"Your Highness," Falric greeted, rising to his feet and offered a salute.

Arthas offered a curt nod in response. "At ease, Captain," he requestred. "Rest now. I will take the watch."

Falric raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure, my prince?" he asked in worry. "You've had quite the evening."

The prince sighed. "I have," he admitted. "But the night is not yet over, and we need to be ready for whatever dawn brings."

"As you wish," Falric complied. He then turned to the others, ensuring their safety before finally lying down beside them.

Arthas took his place at the camp's edge, remembering his conversation with the Prophet. His father would not be so easily swayed, but perhaps Uther might vouch for him if he had seen enough but he wasn't sure yet.

He looked upon Jaina's resting form. Her face was serene, and undisturbed by the worries of the world that rested so heavily upon his own.

Nervously, he reached out, his finger brushed against a loose lock of her hair. The softness of the gesture seemed at odds with his cold touch, but it pained him as well.

He watched her sleep and he saw her eyes eyes flutter briefly. For a moment he thought he had disturbed her but she hasn't woken up. He could feel his heart ache in the guilt. He recalled the pain he had caused her, the suffering he had inflicted on her when he had been the Lich King. Her world had crumbled around her, her master and much of the Kirin Tor slaughtered by his own hand to bring the wretched demon Archimonde into this world.

Her own homeland, Kul'tiras, even forsakened her because of her role in stopping her father from waging senseless war with the Horde.

Yet, she remained steadfast and tried to be the leader that she originally didn't want. A trait that he would forever admire her for.

Every regret he had threatened to crush him from within. He had taken so much from her, and now he wished to give back what he could—his protection, his guidance, his friendship and even his own life if he could. He would not let her fall into the same abyss as she did before.

He hated having to keep secrets from her and his men. Because, he was afraid too. Afraid of losing the trust that he still have with them after he had destroyed it the first time in his previous life. I would tell them..., he thought with his eyes squeezed shut. Just at the right time...not right now.

He could feel the chill of despair within him. Yet, in this moment, Arthas found a semblance of peace. I won't let you carry those burdens again..., he thought, as he gently looked at the woman whom had won his heart. And if there will be any...you won't be carrying them alone.

Arthas kept looking at Jaina, silently apologizing to her, almost wishing that he could tell her the truth so that he wouldn't have to do this alone. But the night held her fast, and so he watched over her and his men, not even minding to sleep for a brief moment.

It was a small price to pay for a greater cause beyond himself.

The next day came and Andorhal was getting close. Jaina rode with Arthas, but she was worried about him as she wished to reach out to him, to offer comfort or at least to understand what he was feeling in these past few day. Falric noticed the prince's fatigue but said nothing, having a similar mindset as Jaina.

They reached Andorhal, but it was clear that something was wrong. Jaina looked over at Arthas. Despite his calm demeanor, she could sense that something was wrong, something that Arthas took note off, but he said nothing as he rode ahead of them.

"Arthas," she ventured. "I know how urgent our mission is, but your behavior...it's unlike you."

Arthas' face was unreadable, but he knew he had to humor her to get her off his trail. "I've seen things, Jaina," he lowly said. "Things that you wouldn't want to imagine."

Her curiosity piqued, Jaina pressed on. "What have you seen?" she asked softly with concern..

He took a deep breath, being mindful of his words. "The consequences of inaction," he replied. "The price of complacency."

The group grew quiet as the city walls grew closer and it was clear that something was terribly wrong when they heard the distant wails of the undead and the clanging of swords echoing through the desolate streets.a

A platoon of Alliance soldiers fought hard against the rampaging undead. Captain Luc Valonforth, a man Arthas recognized as one of the officers who went with him at Northrend, led the charge. He and his men were surrounded by a swarm of undead minions, their numbers seemingly endless.

The soldiers fought with a hard as their weapons fought deep into the decayed flesh of their enemy. Yet, for every undead creature they felled, two more took its place due to the presence of the necromancers.

Elven mages from Quel'thalas continue to cast arcane bolts into the fray. The crackle of their spells pierced the air, briefly illuminating the carnage with flashes of cerulean light. Despite their valiant efforts, the tide of darkness grew ever stronger.

It was at this moment Arthas and his companions had finally arrived. The prince looked over the battleground, feeling the dread and unease that was pushed aside to make this right.

With a roar, Arthas brought Light's Vengeance crashing down upon the skull of a charging Ghoul, killing it. The weapon, imbued with the power of the Light, struck with righteous fury as it cleaved through the undead, leaving a trail of purifying light in its wake.

Jaina quickly acted by summoning a hailstorm of shards that rained down upon the Scourge. The icy onslaught froze the undead in place, giving the soldiers a much-needed respite as the shards of ice shredded through their rotting forms. Falric and his men, their blades gleaming in the dim light, charged into the fray with a battle cry that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them.

With the timely intervention of Arthas and his companions, the tide of battle began to turn. Each blow from Light's Vengeance sent a shockwave through the undying hordes, their unholy forms disintegrating into dust. Falric and his men fought with the fervor of those who knew the very fate of their kin rested upon their shoulders. Jaina weaved spells that danced through the air, bringing forth bolts of frost that froze the advancing Scourge in their tracks.

As reinforcements came, Captain Valonforth and his men fought on, their spirits bolstered by the sudden arrival of help. The enemy was pushed back and their advance was stalled and destroyed as they fell one by one.

It was silent after the last corpse fell, leaving only the mournful wail of the wind through the ruins. Captain Valonforth, his armor battered and his breaths ragged, approached Arthas, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and desperation.

"Thank the Light you've come, your Highness," he called out in relief. "We are but a handful of survivors holding out after they breached the area."

Arthas nodded in approval then looked at the devastated town that was a familiar sight to him. "What has become of Andorhal, Captain?"

Valonforth's eyes narrowed at that. "Those monsters" he spat. "They brought the plague. They've taken over the grain storehouses at the city's edge. And that they are preparing it for transport"

It was all that Arthas needed to hear. "Your priority, Captain, is the grain," he behan. "Don't let a single cart get it of the city. Gather your men and assist Lady Jaina and the mages in securing the storehouses."

Valonforth nodded eagerly. "Understood, your Highness. We will hold the line at all costs." He called out to his soldiers, who had gathered around them. "You heard the prince! To the storehouses! For the Alliance!"

The soldiers cheered, their spirits lifted by the arrival of their prince and his comrades. Jaina, standing at Arthas' side, looked up at him. "And what of Kel'thuzad?" she asked.

He turned to face her. "Falric and I will lead the other half of our forces in pursuit of him," the Prince said. "We'll make sure he doesn't escape."

Falric, ever the loyal companion, nodded firmly. "Aye, my prince," he obliged.

With a nod of understanding, the two groups split off from one another, with Valonforth and Jaina set off towards the city's edge, where the looming grain storehouses. Arthas and Falric, on the other hand, set their sights on the necromancers' operation. If things go as planned, then they'll be able to achieve both objectives in one swift strome

The night before...

Marwyn followed the two envoys from the House of Barov as they weaved through the cobblestone streets of Stratholme,. The captain's instincts were on high alert, ready to act if jeeded. He knew that he was walking a tightrope between loyalty to his prince and the security of the city.

"The baron is expecting us," said the taller of the two as they moved with discretion.

"Yes, but we must first ensure the 'flower girl' is properly... persuaded," the shorter one replied.

Marwyn's curiosity piqued at the mention of a 'flower girl'. Whatever they may be planning, he needed to intercept it at once.

Marwyn trailed the envoys from the House of Barov as they approached the quaint shop of Fearlina Bloomfield, the botanist's name etched into a wooden sign. The shop was nestled between two larger buildings, its windows displaying an array of vibrant flowers and herbs that stood in stark contrast to the shadowed streets of Stratholme. The captain observed from a safe distance as he listened to their conversation, which grew more distinct as they drew nearer.

The taller envoy rapped sharply on the door, and it swung open, revealing a warmly lit interior filled with the scent of earth and blooming plants. A slender young woman with a head of fiery red hair looked up from her work, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the two men dressed in the finery of the Barov House.

"Good evening, Lady Bloomfield," the taller envoy said. "We bring news from the Lord Barov himself."

Fearlina's eyes lit up with excitement. "The Barov family? Here, for me?" she squealed. "What could he possibly want?"

The shorter envoy stepped forward in complete formality. "The Lord has heard of your... unique talents, shall we say?" He glanced at the myriad of bottles and vials lining the shelves. "And he has decided to offer you a place into his household, starting next week. A position that will pay you quite handsomely."

Marwyn immediately knew this was nothing of the pleasant nature and he continued to listen intently.

Faerlina looked at them with a mix of suspicion and excitement. "What sort of position?"

"That's the beauty of it," the taller envoy said with a chuckle. "All will be revealed in due time. But for now, know that your skills will be put to good use, and you will be well-rewarded for your efforts."

Faerlina hesitated, glancing back at her workshop. "But what of my shop?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

The shorter envoy waved a dismissive hand, handing her a letter. "Lord Barov will compensate you for any losses, I assure you. This is an opportunity of a lifetime, one that you would be foolish to pass up."

Marwyn watched as the botanist's expression shifted from skepticism to hope, and he knew that he had to act quickly. He could not allow her to become embroiled in whatever plot the Barov family had planned. But how could he interfere without giving away his own mission?

"Very well," Faerlina finally said with excitement. "I will join Lord Barov's court."

The two envoys exchanged a knowing look before turning to leave. "Excellent," the taller one said. "We will send for you when the time is right."

As they disappeared into the night, Marwyn approached Fearlina's shop, his mind racing with questions and concerns.

Marwyn waited patiently from a corner as Fearlina eventually emerged from her shop, a watering can in hand. She tiptoed over to a particularly lush plant, humming softly to herself. The captain took a deep breath and, when the moment felt right, he leaped into action. He darted out from his hiding spot and, with surprising agility for his size, covered the young botanist's mouth with his calloused hand, effectively silencing her muffled scream. Her eyes went wide with terror, and she struggled against him, her hands flailing in the air.

Marwyn whispered urgently into her ear, "Lady Bloomfield, I am Captain Marwyn of the Royal Guard. I'm here to help. So please, don't scream." His grip was firm but gentle, and he could feel her body begin to relax slightly as she realized she wasn't being attacked by a common thug.

Faerlina looked at him for a moment then nodded cautiously, and Marwyn released her, stepping back and raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "Forgive me for the fright," oleaded with an awkward chuckle. "But I overheard your conversation with the Barov envoys and I fear you're being drawn into something... less than noble."

"Why are you so interested in what they said to me?" Faerlina asked as she looked at the imposing figure of Marwyn.

Marwyn began to explain, "I am here on orders from Prince Arthas to uncover any threats to our city. Baron Rivendare's dealings with the House of Barov have raised some concerns, and I cannot ignore any potential connections. I assure you, your safety is of the utmost importance to us."

Fearlina clutched the letter in her trembling hands. "But I've done nothing wrong," she protested. "They just offered me a position at their household!"

Marwyn took the letter from her and gave it a read before he spoke again. "I do not doubt your innocence," he sincerely and gently answered her. "However, the nature of this offer is suspicious. The House of Barov is known for... acquisitive tendencies."

The botanist was confused. "What does that mean?"

The captain carefully chose his words. "It means that they may seek to use your talents for their own ends. And in times like these, such ambition can lead to dire consequences."

"Lady Bloomfield" Marwyn spoke again, "I must ask you to keep our meeting tonight a secret. Your safety and the security of Stratholme may depend on it." He offered her a solemn look. "I need to take this letter with me if I am to make sure of everyone's safety."

Fortunately, she was cooperative. "I understand, Captain. I won't tell a soul."

Marwyn offered her a reassuring smile. "Thank you. I'm sorry for the abruptness and the fear I've caused you. It was not my intention." He took the letter and tucked it safely into his tunic. "Please, continue with your evening. I will ensure that the Royal Guard remains vigilant, and that your name remains unblemished."

Faerlina nodded, though her amusement at his sudden concern was evident in the quirk of her lips. "I appreciate your concern, Captain. But I assure you, I can handle myself. I've been running this shop alone for quite some time."

Marwyn chuckled, a rare lightness momentarily piercing his stoic demeanor. "Of that, I have no doubt," he replied. "But even the most capable are not immune to the machinations of those with power and greed. I will be watching over the city, and if there is anything more I can do for you, do not hesitate to send word."

"Thank you, Captain," she said, her voice still shaking a little. "I will keep that in mind."

Marwyn gave her a courteous nod before he turned and disappeared into the night.

That Marwyn fellow was a strange one, for a Captain that is. She had to admit, it would've been better if he just approached her normally.

Marwyn tailed the envoys through the streets The safehouse was a nondescript building, blending seamlessly into the rows of houses that lined the narrow alleyways of Stratholme. The captain hid as the envoys approached. He watched from his hiding spot as the door to the safehouse creaked open, spilling a sliver of candlelight onto the cobblestones. The figure of Baron Rivendare was visible for him to see and he, like many nobles, dressed quite fashionably.

The two men from the House of Barov bowed deeply before the Baron. "My lord," the taller one began, "we have received news that the grain from Andorhal is en route as we speak."

Rivendare was pleased. "Excellent," he commended. "Your service to Lordaeron is invaluable. And what of our dear friend Kel'thuzad?"

The shorter envoy stepped forward, his voice filled with a strange mix of excitement and dread. "He is eager for the grain's arrival, my lord. The acolytes await his instructions with great anticipation."

This can't be good, Marwyn thought as he pieced together the puzzle before him. That they intend to spread the plague with aid of this Kel'thuzad fellow. But, he needed more information.

"Good," Rivendare said with a sneer. "And the Royal Guard? Have they been... distracted?"

The taller envoy nodded. "Captain Marwyn is occupied with securing the grain, as per the prince's orders. He suspects nothing."

Marwyn felt a twist of anger at the mention of his name. They were playing a dangerous game, using him as a pawn without his knowledge.

The Baron leaned in. "And the prince himself? What of Arthas?"

The shorter envoy swallowed hard. "He... he remains focused on his mission, my lord. But we are taking precautions to ensure that his suspicions do not lead him here."

Baron Rivendare's laugh echoed through the alley, a sound as cold and hollow as the cackle of a raven. "Arthas," he spat. "He is a fool to think he can simply interfere of our work. But tell Lord Barov that the time is almost upon us. The grain must reach Stratholme before he does."

The envoys nodded. "As you wish, my lord," they said in unison before they left.

Marwyn waited until the Baron had disappeared back into the safehouse. He waited until the envoys were deep in conversation, their heads bent together. The crowd around them grew denser as the night market grew more boisterous, providing the perfect cover for his next move.

He approached them casually, his eyes downcast, blending in with the townsfolk as they bartered for their goods. The taller envoy's hand was resting on his belt, and as Marwyn "accidentally" bumped into him, he slipped the letter from Faerlina into the man's pocket without him knowing. The envoy stumbled slightly, looking around in surprise, but Marwyn had already melted away into the crowd of people, his hand sliding into his own pocket to retrieve the true document.

The shorter envoy looked up with a frown. "What was that?" he murmured to his companion.

The taller envoy shrugged, patting his pocket absently. "Probably just a drunk," he said dismissively. "Let's get this to Lord Barov. We don't want to keep him waiting."

Marwyn watched them go, the letter from Rivendare now safely in his possession. He had to get back to Arthas immediately and inform him of the Baron's plot.

He hurried to the city's gates while his hand was clammy around the letter with Rivendare's seal, the weight of it feeling like a leaden stone in his pocket. As he reached the guardhouse, he called out for a cavalry messenger

A young, eager-looking soldier emerged. "Sir, what is your message?" he inquired.

Marwyn pulled out the letter and held it up. "This is of the utmost importance," he urgently told him. "You must take this to Prince Arthas without delay. Do not let it fall into the wrong hands, and tell no one of its contents except for him."

The messenger took the letter, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized the crest. Along with another that Marwyn gave that detailed his findings to the Prince. "Understood, Captain," he complied. "I will deliver it posthaste."

Marwyn nodded firmly. "Good. Ride hard and may the light guide your way."

The young soldier mounted his horse, and with a swift salute, he kicked his steed into a gallop, the sound of hooves echoing through the night as he disappeared into the night.

The captain took a moment to compose himself, watching the messenger shrink into the distance. He had done what he could, but he wished his Prince would be made aware of the recent developments.

Back at Andorhal, the wagons were laden with the tainted grain rolled through the city gates. Kel'thuzad observed the convoy from an abandoned building, his fingers tracing the lines of a foul incantation in the air.

"Move swiftly," he ordered. "Our plan must not be delayed."

The wagons picked up speed as they approached the outskirts of the city, but as the convoy neared the city gates, the skies above Andorhal were suddenly split by a fiery glow. The stunned undead stared in disbelief as the wagons were revealed, their once sturdy forms now twisted and burning, the grain within them smoldering ominously.

Kel'thuzad's eyes narrowed as he recognized the hand of the young mage he remembered as Antonidas' apprentice, in the destruction. He looked to the mages that had accompanied her as they conjured barriers to protect themselves from the onslaught of rotting flesh and bone that the Meat Wagons had unleashed in retaliation.

The necromancer's fist slammed into the stone wall beside him. "Fools," he spat. "You dare to stand in the way of the Scourge?"

Jaina raised her staff in a gesture of challenge. "I dare," she declared.

The Meat Wagons surged forward, hurling the rotting body parts of their former passengers with unnatural strength. The foul projectiles rained down upon Jaina and her comrades, but she remained unfazed, her magical shields holding firm against the assault.

"Wipe them out. All of them." Kel'thuzad bellowed. "The grain must reach Stratholme. There is no alternative."

The mages, led by Jaina, unleashed a torrent of spells to fend off the relentless attacks, while Captain Valonforth and his soldiers formed a protective wall around the mage.

The former Council of Six member held a furious gaze and it remained locked on Jaina and her companions. Amidst the tumult, a figure emerged at his side.

It was the Prince, leaping over the burning wreckage of the Meat Wagons with a grace that seemed almost supernatural. The necromancer felt a sudden chill, a premonition of his own impending doom as the prince's weapon descended upon him with the force of divine wrath.

Reaching quickly, Kel'thuzad managed to conjure a barrier of swirling dark energy, but it was not enough to withstand the power of Arthas' blow. The barrier shattered like glass and pushing the necromancer back several steps, leaving the two now standing alone.

"At ease, your highness...", the Necromancer said with sneer. "I am Kel'Thuzad, and I've come to deliver a warning. Leave well enough alone. Your curiosity will be the death of you."

Arthas scoffed. "I know well enough, sorcerer", he spat, resisting the urge to end his wretched life here once more. "Of you and the master you serve. It ends now."

Kel'Thuzad stared at Arthas, his curiosity piqued. "You speak as though you know our plans," he spoke. "Tell me, Prince of Lordaeron, what do you know of the Cult of the Damned?"

"I know enough," he replied. "I know of your foul rituals, of how you and your ilk have conspired with the likes of Mal'Ganis to bring the plague to Lrodseron."

The necromancer was mildly impressed. "Very perceptive of you," he mused, given only a few knew about the Dreadlord's plan, even less about his identity. "But what good is knowledge if it leads only to your own doom?"

"It taught me how to deal with the likes of you," Arthas shot back.

Kel'Thuzad chuckled. "You cannot escape the inevitable, child," he said. "You cannot hope to stop it. Not when it is the very will of the Lich King that you stand against."

Arthas maintained his focus, pushing aside the past of his former self. "Your 'Lich King' will not claim Stratholme or Lordaeron," Arthas vowed. "I will see to it personally."

With a sneer, Kel'Thuzad raised his staff high, and a swirling orb of sickly green and black energy formed at its tip. He took a moment to enjoy Arthas' expression of disgust before hurling it back. Arthas, anticipating the move, sidestepped with a fluid grace that belied the weight of his heavy armor. The unholy projectile smashed into a nearby tree, which began to rot away before their very eyes, its once-verdant leaves withering to dust.

"Is that it, sorcerer?" Arthas scoffed. "Petty tricks won't get you anywhere."

"You underestimate the power of the Scourge," the necromancer bellowed, slamming the butt of his staff onto the bloodstained ground with a thunderous thump. The tremor that followed sent ripples through the very air snd the lifeless forms of slain villagers and guards began to stir. Their bodies contorted and twisted, bones cracking and reknitting themselves into grotesque forms as they grew in size. Two monstrous Abominations lurched into existence, their stitched flesh bulging and pustulating as they let out guttural roars.

The crowd of mages and soldiers looked in horror as the Abominations began to move towards Arthas, their rotting limbs swinging with a terrible, unnatural strength. Arthas responded by raising Light's Vengeance high. "But if this is the game you wish to play, then I shall be the one to end it."

With a flick of his wrist, Kel'Thuzad sent the Abominations charging at Arthas. Arthas stood firm, the light of his warhammer burning brighter as he prepared to meet their advance.

The necromancer's next response was a chilling laugh. "You know so little of what you face," he added. "But you will learn. You will all learn the price of defiance.

Chapter Text

With a signal through a single thump of his staff, his the Abominations came charging at him, but the prince remained determined. Swiftly , Arthas brought down his weapon where each swing of his Light's Vengeance and likewise charged back

The first Abomination swung its arm at Arthas, but he was already moving, his shield of faith raising just in time to absorb the blow and redirect it with a surge of holy energy. The creature stumbled, giving Arthas the opening he needed. With a roar, he swung his hammer in a wide arc where weapon connected with the creature's neck, sending a spray of unholy liquid and shattering bone, and the head of the first Abomination went tumbling to the ground, its body following suit with a thunderous crash.

The second Abominatio lunged with a feral snarl, and Arthas met the creature's charge with a well-placed strike to its midsection, the force of his blow sending it reeling. As it staggered back, Arthas saw that the necromancer rained down a barrage of shadowy projectiles, their trajectories unpredictable and deadly.

The prince's instincts took over, his training as a Paladin guiding his every move. He called upon the power of the Light, his hammer leaving a trail of incandescent fire as he swung it in an intricate pattern, creating a whirlwind of holy flame that surrounded him. The shadowy missiles impacted the flaming barrier, each collision sending sparks flying and the stench of burnt decay into the night air.

With a huff, Arthas charged the second Abomination where the creature tried to swipe at him with a massive, decayed hand, but Arthas was too quick. He ducked beneath the swipe, the flames from his weapon scorching the creature's flesh, and as he emerged on the other side, he brought the hammer down in a powerful blow, aimed at the creature's spine. The Abomination let out a bone-chilling shriek as the holy fire engulfed its body, burning away the last vestiges of the dark magic that had once held it together.

The creature's death throes sent tremors through the ground, but Arthas remained steadfast as he glared at Kel'thuzad. The necromancer's grin had faltered, his confidence falling into doubt when he saw that he had underestimated the Prince.

The headless Abomination stumbled continued it's charge at the Princ. The creature's flailing arms were a blur of decay, each swing a testament to the tireless rage that the Prince only stepped aside with the grace of a dancer, striking through the air and landing with a precise blow that cleaved through the Abomination's torso, sending the creature's body collapsing into a heap of rotting meat and splintered bone, ending it's grotesque career.

With the two defeated, Arthas turned his full attention to Kel'Thuzad, who proceeded to cast a barrage of shadowy orbs, each one a concentrated sphere of malevolence that shot towards the prince, who stoodtood still. Each orb was struck and swatted away harmlessly by Light's Vengeance with such precision and skill as Arthas only stared at him, unimpressed.

The necromancer's patience was growing thin and his unleashed a monstrous burst of power. He thrust his staff forward, and the ground trembled as a colossal beam of putrid, greenish-black energy shot from its tip, aimed straight for Arthas.

The Prince concentrated his full focus onto the barrier of the Light as he withstood the brunt of the blast. He gritted his teeth and gripped Light's Vengeance tightly as he began to steadily walk to the necromancer.

Jaina and the mages, their task of cleansing the area of the undead now complete, watched the confrontation with bated breath, their eyes wide with a mix of wonder and terror at the power that washed over them.

As Kel'Thuzad channeled the culmination of his might into the beam, Arthas saw the perfect opportunity. With a deep breath, he called upon the divine might of his weapon, the runes along its shaft pulsing with a blinding brilliance. He held his hammer like a shield, withstanding the dark power thrown at him and began to lessen the distance between them, moving slowly despite the necromancer's attempts to increase the output of his power. The beam of unholy energy met the gleaming surface of Light's Vengeance, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to hold its breath.

The collision sent a shockwave that rippled through the clearing, and with a roar, he stepped forward and Kel'Thuzad's eyes grew wide with surprise, his concentration faltering as the prince closed the distance between them.

In the blink of an eye, Arthas brought the hammer around, using the momentum of the dispelled blast to send Kel'Thuzad hurtling into the air and away from him. The necromancer's body arched backward, his staff slipping from his grasp as the force of Arthas' blow sent him spiraling towards the ruined rooftops. The beam of dark magic dissipated into nothingness, the shadows retreating before the prince's unyielding advance.

The world grew still as Arthas watched Kel'Thuzad's ascent, the necromancer's robes fluttering in the wind like the wings of a fallen raven as he crashed onto the ruined house.

The ruins of the house groaned and shifted as Kel'Thuzad, lay sprawled among the debris as his body became a twisted mess of bruises and burns. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, staining his rotted teeth and the collar of his tattered vestments. He coughed, a wet, hacking sound that sent a spray of crimson droplets into the air, painting the dusty stones with the finality of his defeat.

Arthas approached slowly as he recalled his first killing of the necromancer that it indeed meant little bit as it was part of the plan later on. He could feel theanger, sorrow, and determination. But he had to be careful. If he wished to save his people from further harm

"Finish it," Kel'Thuzad rasped. But he was laughing weakly, as if he had a twisted sense of humor of finally becoming one with the spells he use. "You know what you are, Arthas. You know what you were meant to do."

Jaina hurried to Arthas' side, looking at him and the necromancerr. She could feel the tension coiled in him like a spring about to snap and she could only watch in stunned silence at what he was about to do.

Arthas paused. It was tempting to just kill him and send his remains to oblivion right here. But killing him would miss the opportunity for the others to know him and his schemes. And who could know better than the Kirin Tor, whom he once a part off where they would know what's inside of his head.

"I've made many mistakes throughout my life...", he lamented, before he lowered his weapon. "Ending yours will not be one of them, for now."

Kel'Thuzad chuckled before he coughed up another mouthful of blood. "Oh, my Prince," he croaked, "always so...predictable. A tool of the Light, never to stray from its rigid path."

Arthas only glared at his future 'friend'. "Perhaps," he conceded, "but a tool that knows when to strike and when to show mercy. And if that mercy means you live long enough to talk, then so be it."

The rest of his men moved to the ruined house and Falric stepped forward, weapon drawn, as he inquired the Prince. "Your Highness, are you certain of this course?"

Arthas nodde. "We bring him in," he declared. "We need to know who else is involved with the plague and of their role in it. The Silver Hand and the Kirin Tor would need to know what's inside of his head."

Jaina nodded and shereached into her cloak and found what they needed: an intricate rune-inscribed scroll that she had obtained from the Kirin Tor. It was a powerful artifact, one that could sever a mage's connection to his magic, as long as they are binded by it. "I have this," she said, holding up the scroll. "It will render him incapable of using his magic. We can take him to Dalaran for questioning."

Falric was skeptical, but he knew better than to challenge Arthas' command. He nodded curtly and turned to his men. "Secure him," he ordered, and his men complied..

The mages of the group approached the necromancer warily. They were familiar with him, his old position as a member of Kirin Tor's Council of Six. But a look from Arthas gave them the assurance that they won't be harmed any longer.

Jaina stepped closer as she began to recite the incantation inscribed on the scroll. Kel'Thuzad's eyes widened in realization as he recognized the power that was being invoked. "You... you dare?" he sputtered.

"If it means that you won't be using anymore tricks and for you to talk, then yes. We dare", Arthas replied

The incantation grew in power, the runes on the scroll glowing with a vibrant blue lighgt His eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went limp and became unconscious. Arthas then turned to Jaina. "We'll bring him to the Kirin Tor first," Arthas mused. "Antonidas and the council will know how to handle him, and they will be eager to hear of what he had done."

Jaina readily agreed with him . "Alright, Arthas," she said, her voice steady. "But what of the Silver Hand?"

"The Kirin Tor will be more adept at extracting information without resorting to... extreme measures," Arthas said to her in reply, given that the Silver Hand would be inclined to deal with him harshlt. "And I suspect that Kel'Thuzad will have much to say that could be of use to us all."

Falric stepped forward. "But, your Highness, shouldn't the King and Silver Hand know first? He did infect Lordaeron after all"

"Falric, trust me in this," the Prince urged. "Besides, they have the means to do so. And they'll understand"

The captain bowed his head in compliance. "As you command, Your Highness."

Jaina turned to the four elven mages who had assisted her in the battle. "Gentlemen," she got their attention, "Take him to Dalaran immediately for questioning. Master Antonidas would prefer a word with him."

The mages, now feeling assured, stepped forward. "Be ready," Arthas warned them. "If he recovers even a semblance of his power, deal with him immediately."

The shimmer grew brighter, coalescing into a swirling vortex of light that engulfed Kel'Thuzad and themselves. And then, all of a sudden that took the group by surprise, Kel'Thuzad and the mages disappeared.

"It is done," one of them said. "They have arrived before the Kirin Tor."

Arthas nodded and left the ruined house, where he was evidently exhausted as he slumped against the walls of the ruined house. Falric's voice could be heard giving orders as he and his men worked alongside the remaining mages to ensure that the corrupted harvest would not spread the plague further by destroying it. Despite the victory, Arthas couldn't help but feel overwhelmed at what lies ahead.

Jaina approached Arthas where she observed him for a moment before speaking. "Why did you spare him?" she asked in genuine curiosity . "After all he has wrought, all the lives he has taken and corrupted...why grant him mercy?"

Arthas took a moment to gather his thoughts. He couldn't tell her why yet, but he at least had a suitable explanation without needing to lie to her.

"Killing Kel'Thuzad now would be... too easy," he began carefully. "And it would serve us little purpose. He is but a pawn in a much larger game, and we have to catch the player before we can hope to end the game itself."

Jaina observed him a bit more closely, noticing his lack of wrathful mindset and ruthlessness that he would bring if something terrible had been done to his people. But he was focused, practical and eerily composed when instances like this would have hurt his psyche. "I thought..." she began tentatively, "you would not hesitate to strike him down."

Arthas sighed. "Perhaps," he said, having to remember slaying him without any qualms in his previous life. "But at times, the most powerful weapon is knowledge. And he has plenty of that for us to use."

Jaina studies him for a moment before she offered a small smile of her own. "Arthas, the people of Lordaeron would be fortunate to have someone as measured as you leading them through these darkest of times," she said with a genuine warmth that seemed to ease the tension between them.

Arthas looked at her. "I wish I could say that I am entirely the man they need," he said with uncertainty. "But the truth is, I can only hope what I'm trying to do now will be enough to balance the scales in what I could do."

Falric cam, looking relieved and filled with pride as he saluted Arthas. "The grain has been destroyed, your Highness," he reported. "The taint has been cleansed from this place, and the land can begin to heal."

"Good work, Captain" Arthas commended him, pushed himself to his feet. "Now we need to gather around to survey the damage done. Kesalon," he called out to the Kirin Tor mage, who was busy tending to the few remaining survivors, "any sign of survivors?"

Kesalon turned to him. "My lord," he replied, bowing his head slightly, "most of the townspeople have fled in fear, seeking refuge in the surrounding lands. But many did not make it out in time."

Arthas sighed as knew he couldn't save all of them, but it was still disheartening for him.

Jaina stepped closer where her gaze fell upon the charred and twisted remains of the buildings. "The plague," she murmured, "it's spreading faster than we anticipated."

Arthasknew very well that Kel'thuzad wasn't the only one responsible for this. And now that he was out in the first step of his plan, there is another name he would need to prioritize: Mal'Ganis, the Dreadlord. "There are other settlements that are at risk of being infected. We need move out immediately if we are to stop it's spread."

His men, along with Jaina and Falric agreed. Kesalon went back to them and looked up, his eyes red with grief. "There is one piece of news that may... disturb you both," he said hesitantly. "The house of the war hero Archmage Rhonin... it has been ravaged. His family... they did not survive."

Jaina's eyes were wide with shock and horror as she had known Rhonin to be one of the finest Archmages of the Kirin Tor, having the honor to learn from his as both a mentor and a friend. Rhonin had fought with Uther during the previous war. The thought of loved ones suffering such a fate filled him with sadness for the man.

"Rhonin... he has to be informed.", Arthas whispered in sorrow for the man.

Kesalon nodded. "I will send a raven to him at once, Your Highness," he said, moving to collect himself of his thoughts.

Arthas then paused, remembering that Rhonin has a family with Vereesa, younger sister of the as-yet Ranger-General and future Banshee Queen Sylvanas. He had not yet considered warning Quel'thalas of the possible invasion of the Scourge since Kel'thuzad isn't dead and wouldn't be needed to be revived on the Sunwell. The possibility of an invasion is very slim at best, non-existent if they could stop the Scourge now. But still, they have to at least be wary of Dar'Khan Drathir, their traitorous magister, at least since it was his betrayal that allowed his previous life and the Scourge to sweep over Quel'thalas so easily.

"Hold on for a moment...", the group watched as Arthas went away, pulling an inked quill and a parchment where went into a nearby stump to write his letter before he gave it to the mage. "Make sure it reaches Rhonin and his family.", he instructed firmly. "They'll have to at least know what lies ahead"

Jaina and Falric looked in silence, both assuming that Arthas had written a letter of condolence for the Archmage. That was half-true, as he also included a segment where Arthas hoped that would reach Quel'thalas through Vereesa since he could not get there himself, or that it would be labeled as suspicious if sent directly to Sylvanas. Which he hope that Vereesa might have some luck in persuading her sister, who had an unfortunate record of being so prideful that she is prone to making mistakes.

Something that Arthas ruthlessly exploited as a Death Knight who made Quel'thalas fall before him.

As soon as Arthas sent his message, the sound of an incoming horseman approached, growing louder until a lone rider emerged from the trees. He reined in his horse, the creature's sides heaving with exhaustion from the hard ride.

"Your Highness," the messenger called out. "I bring news from Captain Marwyn at Stratholme."

Arthas strode forward. "Speak," he commanded.

The messenger dismounted and offered a salute. "These are the letters from Captain Marwyn, sir," he reported as he handed over the rolled parchments. "He said they were of the highest importance."

Arthas took them and he broke the wax and unfurled the first letter and read them. Falric and Jaina watched him closely, noticing his unflinching attention to the parchment.

The prince's face grew grimmer with each word he read. The second letter was drawn from his belt pouch, the orange wax seal stark against the pale paper, one belonged to the Baron Rivendare. This one bore no insignia as it was personally written by Marwyn himself.

He broke the seal with a snap and read the anonymous letter, his eyes moving rapidly across the page. His face remained calm, but the tension in his jaw was showing his growing concern.

Once he had read the contents, he took sighed and rolled the letters back up. He pulled out his own quill and ink to write his response.

Finally, he sealed the letter with his own royal insignia and handed it back to the messenger along with the other one. "Return these to Captain Marwyn," he instructed. "Inform him that I grant him the authority to do what needs to be done."

The messenger nodded, tucking the letters into his own pouch. "At once, Your Highness," he said, swinging back into his saddle. He spurred his horse into a gallop, disappearing swiftly as he had arrived.

Jaina and Falric look at one another, appearing apprehensive as to what Arthas meant in those words. He looked troubled, and he was not in the mood in sharing what he knew about those letters.

Without wasting a moment, Arthas turned to Jaina and Falric. "We make for Heartglen," he announced, his voice urgent. "Our scouts have reported a massive undead force marching towards it as we speak."

Jaina's eyes widened in surprise. "Heartglen?" she echoed. "But why there?"

Arthas hesitated. "Their grain storages," he simply said. "If they are not cleansed or secured, the infection could spread like wildfire among the populace. We need to evacuate the village and eliminate any risk of contamination."

It was another half truth and a half lie to his part. That intelligence came from his memories of his past life, remembering how he and his men slaughtered the infected populace before holding off a massive invasion from the Scourge until Uther arrived. But right now, their priority is to get the populace to safety.

And while there, he fully expects Marwyn to execute his orders immediately regarding the Baron Rivendare at Stratholme. If things go as planned, he would go for the next major name in his list: Mal'Ganis.

Falric nodded. "The prince is right," he understood his message. "We leave at once."

Jaina was both concerned and confused. "But why do we hurry?" she pressed. "Surely, we can afford to rest before heading into another battle."

"Because," Arthas then turned to her, "every minute we delay, more lives hang in the balance. We have to act swiftly if we are to prevent another tragedy like this one."

He then turned to Captain Valonforth, who was awaiting his orders. "Captain, you are to remain here with your men and secure the city to make sure the survivors are tended with. I have called in for reinforcements from the capital and would arrive here in due time."

Valonforth bowed to the Prince. "As you command, your highness. We will hold the city at all costs", he proclaimed. With a nod from the Prince, they and his companions mounted their horses and prepared to leave the ravaged city of Andorhal behind.

As they rode out, the sun began to rise over the horizon. Jaina couldn't shake the feeling that Arthas' demeanor had shifted since their encounter with Kel'Thuzad. His usual decisive air had been tempered by a newfound restraint, an unexpected quality in a man who had once been driven by the relentless pursuit of his goals. She watched him from the corner of her eye, and he focused on the path ahead.

"You seem... different, Arthas," she pointed out tentatively, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. "More measured in your actions."

Falric nodded in agreement beside her. "Indeed, your Highness," he added, "you've shown a level of foresight and consideration that wasn't there before."

"Perhaps," Arthas said slowly, "it is because I understand the cost of haste and recklessness more clearly now." He glanced back at them. "And that I could not afford to act without consideration to those around me." Arthas rode ahead, leaving Jaina alone with Falric as they rode with their men following behind closely.

Falric kept looking at Arthas as he rode ahead, wondering his superior's words before he turned to Jaina, his expression mirroring her own concern. "What troubles you, Lady Jaina?" he inquired with genuine curiosity

Jaina took a moment to gather her thoughts. "Arthas...his decision to spare Kel'Thuzad," she began. "It was...unexpected. Admirable, in a way, but it felt...as if he's done this before."

Falric frowned. "You suspect something amiss?" he cautiously asked.

Jaina nodded. "He speaks of consequences and the price of complacency," she said, her voice low. "It's as though he knows the depths of what we face, intimately. And his urgency to prevent another tragedy...it's almost as if he's seen it happen before."

Falric remained silent for a beat. "The prince is wise beyond his years," he offered. "Perhaps his experiences have made him more...acquainted with the darker aspects of our world."

"But he's never been one to show mercy," Jaina countered. "And his...his knowledge of the plague, it seems...too precise."

Falric wondered for a moment. "Could it be," he ventured, "that he has been...affected by the plague?"

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "He would have shown signs. And he hasn't.."

Falric furrowed his brow. "You're right," he admitted. "His focus is unwavering, his strategies unblemished by anger or haste." He paused. "But if not the plague, then what could be guiding him?"

Jaina had the same question in mind. "I've noticed it too," she replied with unease in her tone. "He's been so...so controlled. Almost as if he's fighting against something within himself."

Falric thoughfully nodded. "And those letters from Marwyn," he lamented in a low tone. "He's been secretive about them. What could be so dire that he feels the need to hide it from us?"

Jaina nodded solemnly. "It's as if he's carrying a weight that he can't share," she said. "The way he speaks of the plague, his insistence on preventing another catastrophe...it's eerie."

Falric cast a sidelong glance at her. "Do you think...could it be possible that he's seen this all before?" he asked, his voice hushed as if speaking the words aloud might make the unthinkable real.

Jaina's eyes snapped to Falric, her thoughts racing. "Seen it before?" she echoed. "How could that be?"

"I don't know," Falric shokk his head. "But he speaks with a certainty that only comes from experience. And his urgency, it's not just that of a leader facing a grave threat—it's personal. As if he's trying to change something that's already been written."

The two companions fell silent, the rhythmic clop of their horses' hooves the only sound between them. They knew Arthas well enough to recognize that something was amiss, but the depth of his secrets remained a mystery to them.

"I'll speak with Arthas once we arrived at Heartglen," Jaina declared. "Whatever he's hiding, it's clear it's eating away at him. He's not the same man we knew back then."

Falric looked at her with concern and skepticism. "But, Lady Jaina, the prince is a man of many responsibilities. He may not wish to share his troubles with us," he firmly said to her. "We need to respect his privacy."

Jaina's jaw set. "I understand your loyalty, Falric," she said, "but if what he's hiding could threaten our mission or even himself, then it's our duty to know, as his friends."

Falric took a moment to think then nodded. "You're right," he conceded. "But we have to be careful. Arthas has always been a man of honor, and if he feels the need to keep his thoughts to himself, it's for a reason."

Jaina's gaze softene. "Of course," she sighed. "But we're his friends as well, Falric. We can't stand by while he suffers alone."

Falric's expression grew solemn at that. "Aye," he agreed. "We'll approach him after we've done what needs to be done at Heartglen. Perhaps then, he'll be more willing to speak of what troubles him."

From the edge of the cliff, Mal'Ganis watched them leave. The failure to secure the grain and the capture of Kel'Thuzad was a setback. The Prince's unexpected valor had thrown a wrench in the works.

The Dreadlord's mind questioned the Ner'zhul's choice of his chosen champion, and he couldn't help but question the wisdom of such a move. It is his duty to ensure their success as one of its jailors, but if they wished for the Burning Legion to come to this world, the Lich King needed to have his role fulfilled.

Was there something more to this prince than met the eye? Something that could be exploited, a weakness that could be used to bring him into the fold? Or was he truly a lost cause, a mere obstacle to be removed? Mal'Ganis clenched his fist. The prince's actions had been surprisingly restrained, almost...calculated. It was as if he had seen this unfold before, knew the moves of the game better than they had anticipated.

Startled, Mal'Ganis whirled around to find his superior, Tichondrius, settled behind him. "Report," Tichondrius demanded with his usual, cold glare.

"We've suffered setbacks," Mal'Ganis admitted, his disdain for the other Dreadlord was barely concealed. "The prince and his allies arrived in time to prevent the grain's contamination and secured Kel'Thuzad's capture."

Tichondrius' frown became colder. "The meddling of the living," he mused. "Your grand design is unraveling before it has even begun, Mal'Ganis. And your pet in chains. Have you underestimated this...prince, perhaps?"

Mal'Ganis glared at him but he knew better than to challenge Tichondrius directly. "He is more...persistent than anticipated," he begrudgingly admitted. "But I shall not fail."

Tichondrius leaned closer. "See that you do not," he warned him. "The Legion's patience is not infinite, and neither is mine."

Mal'Ganis' expression grew tight. "You speak as if I have not been diligently carrying out our master's will here. I have bent the will of the Scourge to serve us, and orchestrated the plague's spread to perfection. If there are any missteps, it is because the prince is an unpredictable element—one that I am fully capable of controlling."

Tichondrius' gaze never eavered. "But control is a fickle thing, isn't it?" he challenged which pierced through his subordinate's bravado. "And your 'perfection' has thus far only led to delays and complications." He stepped closer. "Remember, your role here is not to simply perform tasks, but to ensure victory. I have my eyes on other potential pawns, should you fail to deliver the prince to us. Or replacements for Prince if need be"

Mal'Ganis was eager to steer the conversation away from his recent missteps, chose to focus on the broader picture of their grand scheme.

Tichondrius turned to face Mal'Ganis fully. "When the time is right, we will have to call upon Detheroc and Varimathras if things do not go according to plan. But for now, we concentrate on securing our foothold here. The prince's interference cannot be underestimated."

"What of the Blackrock Clan, Tichondrius? Have they proven to be of use?", Mal'Ganis further asked.

"The orcs of Blackrock have lost their favor with the Legion," Tichondrius answered. "Their repeated failures in the service of our cause have not gone unnoticed."

"But they are warriors," Mal'Ganis countered. "Surely their might could be of value?"

Tichondrius waved a dismissive hand. "Their pride is their downfall," he pointed out. "But do not despair. The orcs are a fickle race, easily swayed by the promise of power and vengeance. If the need arises, we shall offer them the opportunity to atone for their past treacheries. They will serve us again, if only out of desperation and fear."

Mal'Ganis nodded thoughtfully. "And when their purpose is...fulfilled?" he asked.

"When their usefulness wanes," Tichondrius began, "we discard them as we would any other tool that has outlived its purpose."

Mal'Ganis knew that he could not afford to fail again, not with Tichondrius watching his every move. He would have to be more cunning, more ruthless than ever before.

"Understood," Mal'Ganis murmured, bowing his head slightly in a show of deference. "The prince will be ours, and the Scourge will march unchecked across these lands."

Tichondrius' glare slightly softend. "See that it is so," he ordered. With a swirl of shado, he vanished, leaving Mal'Ganis to ponder the weight of his words.

The Dreadlord turned his gaze back to the ruined city. But first, the prince... Arthas. To control such a willful soul, is challenging. But if push comes to shove, he would see to it that the Prince be eliminated before he could become a vital threat to their cause.

Chapter Text

The trek to Heartglen was filled with tension. The Prince's instincts kicked in spite of the serene community around him, having to remember the first time he and his men end up being besieged. The villagers went about their daily routines—tending to crops, mending fences, and sharing laughter. Falric couldn't help but voice his skepticism of his Prince's claims of an attack. "Looks like a peaceful day, doesn't it, Prince Arthas?"

Arthas' gaze didn't falter one bit. "Too peaceful," he murmured, his voice tight with concern. "Stay alert. This...this is not right."

Jaina looked around, sharing Falric's skepticism. "But everything seems so...normal here," she observed, sounding doubtful. "Could it be that our information was erroneous?"

The Captain agreed with her. "Perhaps we've been led astray," he offered. "They have been cunning, but this...this seems almost too good to be true."

The Prince knew very well that wasn't the case. "No," he insisted. "I can feel it. The taint is here." He looked around, sounding like a man with paranoia in his name.

He went to the garrison's command post, where the men immediately stood in attention once they saw the Crown Prince paying a visit to their posts. The sergeant, a dwarf named Brond Ironbrow, met him with a salute. "Your Highness," he greeted, still sounding surprised at the Prince.

"Sergeant Ironbrow," Arthas briskly greeted back. "I've received reports of potential threats around the area. Have you noted anything unusual?"

The sergeant dutifully nodded. "Aye, sire. We've had our share of skirmishes with the undead bastards, but naught that suggests an imminent attack."

Before he could say more, a young scout, barely holding onto consciousness, stumbled into the garrison, his chest heaving from exhaustion. "My lord!" he panted, dropping to one knee. "The forests...the forests are alive with the undead!"

Arthas' eyes narrowed, his hand tightening around his weapon. "Tell me," he ordered, his voice calm despite the storm of emotions within him. "Where are they camped?"

The scout took a deep breath, struggling to find the words. "Two separate forces, my lord," he managed to say. "One to the east, and another to the north. They are preparing to strike from both directions!"

Jaina's eyes widened. "But Kel'Thuzad is in our custody," she pointed out, sounding sure that wasn't possible. "Surely, his capture would have deterred them."

"Kel'Thuzad is another pawn of there schemes.", the Prince replied. "There are others like him leading the charge." He turned to the gasping scout. "You spoke of leaders among them. What do you know of these...figures?"

The scout, panting for air, managed to croak out, "They are...death itself, my lord. Large, floating skeletons in long robes, their eyes burning with a cold, blue fire. They command the undead with a mere gesture."

Araj the Summoner and Ras Frostwhisperer, Arthas thought. He had known them as two of Kel'thuzad's colleagues before he even became an Arch Lich in his previous life, same adversaries who led the charge at Heartglen. "Liches," he murmured with contempt.

Jaina noticed the Prince's unease. "What are these 'Liches' you speak of?" she inquired in curiosity.

Arthas' gaze never left the scout, his mind racing with the implications of their presence. "They are powerful beings. Think of it as Necromancers, but more powerful and more connected to death itself," he explained, his voice low and grave. "Higher-ranked beings within their hierarchy, capable of commanding the dead and wielding dark magic that would make Kel'Thuzad's own seem like parlor tricks."

At least for now. Because when the Necromancer was revived in the Sunwell, he quickly proved to be the most dangerous and powerful of them all.

The scout, now regaining his composure, looked up at Arthas. "They've set up a large encampment, my lord," he reported, his voice still ragged from his run. "But they don't seem to be in a hurry to attack. We've observed them for two days now, and they're gathering their forces—it seems they won't move for at least another day or two."

"Good," Arthas said, his voice a mix of relief and calculation. "This gives us time to prepare." He turned to Falric. "Assemble the men," he ordered, his voice resonating with authority. "We have to fortify Heartglen as soon as possible."

Falric complied and moved ahead. Jaina, her eyes still on the prince, spoke up. "But why would they wait?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. "Why not strike while we're unaware?"

"They are not without strategy," Arthas pointed out. Even before becoming a Death Knight, their reputation as mindless mobs craving for flesh and souls are made up when led by smarter beings such as Mal'Ganis and Kel'thuzad. "Likely going for a divide and conquer strategy. Or await reinforcements of their own."

He quickly assessed the situation, trying to think of viable solutions to at least minimize the damage compared to last time. "We'll make do with what we have," he uttered. "Sergeant Ironbrow, prepare the villagers for evacuation. We'll escort them to the capital city for thier protection." The sergeant complied as he called for his men to gather the villagers and organize the wagons.

Turning to Falric and Jaina, Arthas outlined his plan. "We'll need to seal off the village from the undead's approach. Construct barricades and fortifications at the front and sides, but leave the rear open for now—that's where we'll expect our reinforcements." Falric nodded, already envisioning the best defensive positions for their small but determined force.

Jaina, her mind racing with the complexities of the situation, spoke up. "And what of the Liches?" she asked, her eyes alight with the desire to act decisively.

Arthas, his gaze unwavering, shook his head. "No, not yet," he said with caution. "The civilians would go first. We'll hold the line till we could properly launch a counterattack if we're still in capable condition."

With that, he turned to the exhausted scout. "Ride to Stratholme," he instructed. "Tell Captain Marwyn or Lord Uther if he's there that we need reinforcements. And to make haste as soon as they could."

The scout nodded and took off at a gallop, dust billowing in his wake. Arthas watched him go, having to remember this took place before his darkest deed as Crown Prince. Because even with preparation, it felt as if it were tormenting him that some things are constant.

But with the choice still given to him. Arthas would still choose to try. No matter what.

The prince turned back to thegarrison, his eyes hardening with resolve. "We've much to do," he said, his voice echoing in the courtyard. "The undead will not find us unprepared."

Falric and his men set to work with a newfound vigor, constructing barricades from the remnants of the village's fortifications. The elven mages, under Jaina's command, began casting protective wards around the village perimeter, their incantations weaving a shimmering net of arcane power that would serve as an early warning against the approaching undead.

Arthas could only hope that Uther would arrive sooner than last time. But then, he would have to explain everything to them, including Jaina and Falric.

In the heart of the undead encampment, the two Liches, Araj and Ras, conversed in hushed tones, their skeletal faces a mask of concern. Araj, the Summoner, leaned against the trunk of a decaying tree, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Ras," he said, his voice a chilling whisper that seemed to echo through the very bones of the forest, "have no fear. Kel'Thuzad is not one to easily break."

Ras, the Frostwhisperer, nodded in agreement, his icy breath visible in the damp air. "Perhaps you are right, Araj," he murmured, his eyes scanning the horizon. "The Dreadlords will not be pleased if he reveals our plans."

Before Araj could reply, the shadows grew denser, and the very fabric of reality seemed to ripple as the Dreadlord Mal'Ganis, and the current lear of the Scourge, appeared before them. His towering frame was a stark contrast against the desolate landscape, the flaming eyes in his face burning with the intensity of a thousand suns. "Report," he demanded, in a malevolent rumble.

Araj straightened, his posture radiating confidence despite the looming presence of the demonic being. "Ke'thuzad's capture was unexpected, my lord," he began, his skeletal fingers tapping against his staff. "However, he is well-guarded by the Alliance, and their mages will have difficulty in breaking his will. Kel'Thuzad is strong. He will not betray us."

Mal'Ganis' expression grew thoughtful, his fiery eyes boring into Araj's. "I am well aware of the developments, Araj. He was chosen for a purpose," the Dreadlord continued. "If he falls, we will simply find another to take his place."

Ras nodded in agreement. "Our true strength lies in the Scourge, not in the whispers of one man," he said, his voice carrying the chill of the grave.

"Your faith in Kel'Thuzad is commendable, but we cannot afford to be complacent," Mal'Ganis spoke with a chilling finality, his eyes narrowing into fiery slits. "The human prince is a threat that we did not anticipate. He could disrupt our plans. Ready your forces. The assault on Heartglen must begin tomorrow."

Araj and Ras exchanged a worried glance. "My lord," Araj said carefully, "our preparations are not yet complete. The forces are not fully gathered, and the villagers have likely anticipated our presence."

Mal'Ganis' skull-like face twisted into a sneer. "Vigilance will not save them," he said, his voice like the crackling of ancient parchment. "And their doom is precisely what we require. The bodies of the slain will bolster our ranks, replenishing what we recently lost. Do not disappoint me. Hasten your preparations. The Scourge marches on the morrow."

The two Liches bowed, feeling the weight of their master's displeasure. "We will not fail you, my lord," Ras assured, his voice laced with the cold certainty of the grave.

"See that you don't," Mal'Ganis warned, his voice trailing off as his form began to dissipate into the shadows.

The sun had already set, casting Heartglen into an eerie twilight. Falric, his expression a mix of determination and compassion, stood before the gathered villagers, their faces etched with fear and confusion. The veteran's voice was firm yet gentle enough as he addressed them. "I know this is difficult to understand," he began, his eyes sweeping over the sea of anxious faces. "But we've received word that the grain in the storehouses has been tainted and should not be used or consumed by any means necessary."

The whispers grew louder as the villagers exchanged worried glances. Some clutched their children tightly, while others held onto the wooden beams of their homes. An elderly woman, her eyes brimming with tears, stepped forward. "Our crops have been our life for generations," she pleaded. "Surely, there's some mistake?"

Falric's gaze softened. "I wish it were so," he said solemnly. "But we can't take our chances. The prince has sent word that we must evacuate and destroy any grain that may have been affected. You will be properly compensated once we have dealt with the blight"

The villagers murmured among themselves, their fear and disbelief palpable. Falric knew that convincing them was crucial. He raised his voice to be heard over the clamor. "The safety of every citizen from every village, town or city is paramount" he bellowed. "We could choose to act now and maintain the hope of returning to your homes. Or do nothing and lose everything. The choice is yours"

Slowly, the villagers understood. They watched as the soldiers, under the watchful eyes of Falric and Arthas, began to fortify the village, setting up barricades and preparing for the inevitable. The sounds of hammering and shuffling feet filled the night as families packed their meager belongings, the children's questions met with grim silence.

Yet, amidst the chaos, there remained a stubborn few who refused to leave their homes. Falric approached one such man, a grizzled farmer named Maric, his arms folded across his chest. "You must come with us," Falric urged, his voice low and earnest. "The undead will show no mercy."

Maric, the stubborn farmer, eyed Falric with a mix of anger and resignation, the lines on his face deepening in the flickering torchlight. "You expect me to leave my home, my land?" he bellowed. "Where I've buried my wife and kids? To what, become a refugee in my own country?"

Falric's breathed out heavily. "Sir," he said, his voice firm yet filled with empathy, "With due respect, this is for you and the citzens' safety." He gestured to the fortifications rising around them. "They will not stop with Heartglen. They'll march through without mercy. If we don't cooperate now, we'll fall apart."

The farmer's eyes searched Falric's, looking for a shred of doubt, but all he found was the unyielding resolve of a man who had seen the worst of war's horrors. With a heavy sigh, Maric relented. "Alright," he grumbled. "I'll pack what I can. But I'm not leaving until I know this place is safe."

Falric nodded, a glimmer of understanding in his gaze. "I promise you, we won't abandon Heartglen without a fight," he assured. "Now, go gather your things. We leave at dawn."

As the night deepened, Falric and his soldiers continued to persuade the reluctant villagers, each conversation a delicate dance of logic and emotion. It was already difficult trying to explain everything to the people, especially to the children. And Falric had no idea how to properly explain it to them without them living in fear after that.

In the meantime, Jaina watched in worry after she had finished setting up the wards that increased the durability of the barricades while glancing to find several dwarf riflemen and mortar teams preparing the ammunition they would need. While this was happening, she look to find Arthas receiving a report from a footman informing him that the towers overseeing the town have been fortified before dismissing him.

She looked at him with worry. While others may find his newfound caution, wisdom, methodical and behaviour befitting a Paladin be a welcome sight, it was worrying for her. The way he kept averting her questions and his reluctance to speak up with her worried her to no end. What's worse, is that she felt that Arthas is actively pushing her away. Was there something wrong with her? Or is there something that he was so afraid of telling her? She had to know why somehow. Even if she had to be firm with him just for tonight.

The mage approached the Crown Prince, who was looking into the horizon as if he were in his own world. She placed a gentle hand on his arm, the warmth of her touch briefly momentarily melting the cold shell he had put himself on. "Arthas, are you well?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine concern.

He looked back at her, giving her a small smile that faded moments later. "I am as well as can be expected," he replied, his tone a mix of weariness and resolve. "But we still have much to do before morning. They're not going to let us rest anytime soon."

Jaina searched his eyes, looking for any sign of warmth within him. "You've been pushing yourself too hard," she said gently. "You need to rest, even if just for a short while. We all do."

Arthas sighed heavily, taking a seat on one of the nearby crates, and she followed suit. "Jaina," he began, his voice having toned down. "I...I can't. Not right now." He hesitated, wishing he could just tell her the truth then and there. He shuddered almost instantly, pushing the thought away. "Not until I'm sure that my people are safe. None of them deserve the fate whatever they have in mind for them"

The mage's expression grew serious. "What is it that troubles you, Arthas?", she sincerely asked.

He felt a twinge of discomfort at the question as he struggled to maintain his façade. He couldn't tell anyone, not even to her. "It's...my responsibilities, Jaina." he replied evasively, his eyes never leaving hers. "Any decision I made, I need to be very careful."

Jaina studied him for a moment. This isn't right. There was something wrong with him. "Arthas," she began, her voice laced with both concern and a hint of frustration. "Since we left the capital, you've been...different. Distant. Apprehensive. Paranoid even. Tell me, what's going on?"

The Prince knew it was a matter of time before she suspects anything. Jaina is among the most intelligent people he had met. He knows she is persistent, but he did not want her to know the horrors of what she is yet to experience. Yet, she searched his eyes, feeling the depth of his pain as he quickly looked away, his face becoming anguished. "Arthas," she implored, her voice was soft yet insistent. "You know you can trust me. Why won't you tell me what's troubling you?"

He kept his eyes from her. "You don't know what you're asking, Jaina," he said, his voice heavy with a guilt that seemed to consume him from within.

Jaina?

I'm sorry, Arthas...I can't watch you do this...

His heartbeat picked its pace, becoming visibly nervous "All the more reason why I need to know," she pleaded, stepping closer to him. "If not Falric, your father or Uther, then at least tell me. Maybe I can help you."

He looked at her then, his eyes becoming haunted the moment he peered at the same pleading eyes that he encountered at Icecrown Citadel.

So you wish to commune with the dead? You shall have your wish...

You won't deny me this, Arthas! I must know! I must find out!

"You wouldn't believe me if I did," he murmured, his voice strained. "The things I've seen... the things I've done..."

"And what are they, Arthas?" Jaina asked him, her hand reaching out to touch his arm.

But he pulled away, his eyes darkening. "You don't understand," he replied, his voiced toned down into an anguished whisper. "What I've become...what I have with me...it's not something that it's easily fixed."

Her frustration grew, but she could see the turmoil churning within him. "If it's about Kel'Thuzad or the Scourge, tell me," she pressed. "Let me help you."

"It's not about them, Jaina...", He couldn't. The shame. The guilt. It was all coming back to him. He looked up to meet her gaze. "Jaina," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wish I could tell you. I really do. But you wouldn't want to know. It's not something that anyone should carry. Not even you."

Her eyes searched his, a mix of confusion, anger, and concern. She had never seen him so...broken.

He looked back at Jaina, his gaze intense and filled with a pain that she had never seen before. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as he spoke. "You don't understand what it's like to watch everything you love crumble to dust. And be the very hand that brought about its destruction."

Her eyes searched his, a storm of confusion and hurt swirling within them. "What?" she gasped, her voice trembling at this sudden revelation. "Arthas, what were you saying?"

Arthas felt the warmth of Jaina's hand on his arm, her gaze searching his eyes, and his resolve almost crumbled. He desperately wanted to open up to her but he had said enough and remembered it wasn't the right time. He bit his lip so hard he could taste his own blood, a stark contrast to the chill that had seeped into his very soul.

"What are you hiding from me?" Jaina's voice was a mix of worry and confusion. "Arthas, you made me swear that I wouldn't keep anything from you. Now, can you do the same for me?"

He took a sharp breath in, his eyes briefly meeting hers before he turned away, unable to bear the weight of her trust. "I've made...mistakes," he began, his voice cracking with the effort of holding back the tide of his memories. "Mistakes that no one should have to live with."

Jaina's hand tightened on his arm. "We all do, Arthas. And if there are, you could always make up for them"

He flinched, the pain in her voice mirroring the agony that gnawed at his conscience. He knew she was right, but the darkness within him was a festering wound that he feared would never heal. "There are some...," he whispered, "that are too great to atone or correct for."

He was afraid. Afraid of what she would think if she knew who he truly was.

Arthas stared at her for a moment, torn between the need to confess and the fear of losing the trust of those who believed in him again. "Jaina," he said, his voice heavy with the burden of his secrets. "I wish it were that simple."

Her eyes searched his, and she could see the turmoil that raged within him. "I'm not going anywhere," she said softly. "I'll be here."

But Arthas knew he couldn't drag her into the abyss that threatened to consume him. With a heavy heart, he gently removed her hand from his arm and stood. "I need to check on the men," he said, his voice strained. "We'll need to be ready."

Jaina's eyes searched his, her heart breaking with each step he took away from her. "Arthas!" she called out, her voice desperate.

He paused, his back to her. "I'm sorry, Jaina," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "I really am..."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the flickering torchlight, the weight of his secret hanging heavily between them. Arthas squeezed his eyes shut, acknowledging that he had been a fool to hide it from her.

As he moved through the camp, Captain Falric approached, his expression concerned. "Everything alright, my Prince?"

Arthas took a deep, shaky breath. "Just preparing for the battle ahead," he said, his voice tight with unshed emotion. "Now we wait..."

"What is the meaning of this?" Uther roared, his voice echoing through the camp as he had arrived in Stratholme to find its citizens lined up for inspection by the soldiers of the Kingdom. "Who gave the order to treat our people as if they are cattle?"

A young recruit stepped forward, his hand shaking as he saluted the paladin. "Captain Marwyn, sir," he replied, his voice quivering. "He said it was for the safety of the city. There are rumors of a contagion, and we must ensure that no one brings it within the walls."

"Marwyn?" Uther's eyes narrowed. "And where is he now?"

The soldier glanced nervously around before pointing to a nearby tent. "In there, with the mages from Dalaran, sir."

Uther stalked towards the tent, the fabric fluttering in his wake. He threw back the flap to reveal Captain Marwyn reading a recent report given to him. The captain looked up, his expression unreadable as he took in the paladin's furious visage.

"Your authority to act on this matter is not yours to claim, Marwyn," Uther growled, but he knew he had to maintain composure. "You serve Prince Arthas, not some whispered paranoia. What madness has gripped you?"

Marwyn rose to his full height, his eyes meeting Uther's unwaveringly. "Prince Arthas himself gave me these orders, my lord," he said calmly. "He fears for the city's grain supply and suspects foul play."

The Paladin's eyes widen in bewilderment. Arthas? But why?. He had not been consulted by the Prince regarding these matters, nor he did so with his father. So this was bizarre. "What are the nature of these orders he had given you, Captain?", he demanded. "Even concerning is that neither the council or the King had been informed of them"

Marwyn's remained steadfast. "These are difficult times, Lord Uther. The Prince made it paramount that the safety of the city and its citizens are made a top priority with the reports of the plague spreading throughout the Kingdom"

The two men stared at each other, the tension between them palpable. The mages looked on, their robes fluttering slightly in the breeze, their expressions a mix of curiosity and anxiety. Uther took a step back, his gaze drifting over to the soldiers and mages who were meticulously inspecting crates of grain. The sight was eerie under the flickering torchlight as they worked tirelessly to ensure the city's supplies remained untainted. "Is this the 'contamination' you speak of?" he asked, his voice now a low rumble.

Marwyn nodded gravely. "Yes, my Lord. We have reason to believe that the grain has been tampered with, possibly by agents of a necromancer called Kel'thuzad, who is a prime architect plague's spread. If it was consumed by the people within the city walls, the consequences could be catastrophic."

Marwyn's gaze flicked to the side as one of his men approached, his face ashen and his steps quick. "Captain," the soldier gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "Baron Rivendare has been informed of the warrant for his arrest. He's barricaded himself in his manor with a small contingent of guards, refusing to come out."

"Understood," he said calmly. "Prepare the men. We'll bring him out, one way or another."

The paladin's eyes widened at the revelation. "Arrest the Baron?" Uther demanded, his voice rising in disbelief. "What has come to pass that you would take such a drastic measure without consulting the council or the King? Or are these orders coming from the Prince as well?"

Marwyn met Uther's gaze, his voice unwavering. "The prince has received credible information that implicates Baron Rivendare in a plot against the city, my Lord. He has been working with Kel'Thuzad along with the House of Barov, and the 'specialized grain' is part of that plot."

Uther's hand went to his chest, his heart racing with the gravity of the accusation. "This is... unthinkable," he murmured.

Marwyn pulled out the two letters, the orange seal of Baron Rivendare stark against the pale paper of the first one, and the second, a letter of his own, stained with the urgency of his findings and the prince's orders. He offered them to Uther, his hand steady despite the tremor that ran through his body. "Read them for yourself, Highlord," he urged. "The evidence is clear. Rivendare has been colluding with the House of Barov, and they're all under Kel'Thuzad's sway. This 'grain' they speak of is likely a component of the plague that has ravaged our lands. And they intend to discreetly transport them into the city to be consumed."

Uther took the letters and read them himself. It was unmistakable. The handwriting was precise at best, and the Baron's own signature and seal was proof of it. When he came upon Marwyn's letter, he read every detail regarding the Baron's operations, as well as reply from Arthas himself, who authorized Marwyn to arrest the Baron with his signature and personal seal. "Marwyn," Uther said, his voice thick with disbelief and anger, "you must be mistaken. The Baron has been a bastion of strength and order in Stratholme. How could he...?"

Marwyn's expression was grim as he nodded. "I know, my Lord. But the prince's suspicions have been confirmed. The evacuation of the city is not just for the safety of the city from the plague, but also to ensure that the citizens remain unaffected by the chaos that will come when the truth of Rivendare's treachery is revealed as well as the nature of the grain. Panic would spread faster than the Scourge itself."

The paladin's gaze drifted to the crowded camp, the faces of the weary and worried refugees cause him to feel a pang of guilt for the fear they must feel, not knowing the true reason behind their displacement. Yet, he knew that Marwyn spoke the truth; the safety of the people was paramount, even if it meant keeping them in the dark for a time.

Uther's eyes grew troubled as he handed back the letters. "What else have you uncovered in your investigation, Marwyn?"

Marwyn took a deep breath. "The extent of the corruption runs deeper than we initially suspected, my Lord. Baron Rivendare and Lord Alexei Barov are not merely dealing in tainted grain; they are both deeply entwined in the Cult of the Damned, led by the necromancer Kel'Thuzad. They are actively working to spread the plague across the land, turning innocents into their undead servants."

"And the people? What of them?", Uther asked.

Marwyn's gaze was steely. "They are being recruited, or perhaps trafficked, to the Cult's cause. I've seen it myself. They promised a lady named Fearlina Bloomfield, the botanist, a position in their household, all the while intending to use her for their foul purposes. Given her occupation, they might use her talents for rather venomous purposes."

"And where is the prince now?" he asked, his voice tight with emotion.

"Prince Arthas has departed Andorhal after capturing Kel'thuzad and sending him to the Kirin Tor for interrogation, my lord," Marwyn replied. "He's overseeing the evacuation of Heartglen as we speak. The village is to serve as our staging ground for the defense against the undead horde that is amassing."

If Arthas had indeed capture the plague's instigator, why didn't he detain him for the Silver Hand first instead?, Uther thought. Or did Arthas feel that the Kirin Tor had methods in making the culprit talk with methods that the Paladins simply did not have? Still, if Arthas made measures such as this, he felt that he needed to trust his pupil with this.

The clatter of hooves and the jingle of armor announced the arrival of a cavalry messenger, his horse lathered in sweat from the hard ride. The man slid off his steed and saluted Captain Marwyn and Lord Uther with a look of urgency etched upon his face. "Captain, Lord Uther," he panted, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. "Prince Arthas sends his regards and requests your immediate presence in Heartglen. He requires additional forces to bolster the defenses against the encroaching undead."

Marwyn's eyes widened, the gravity of the situation sinking in deeper. "How dire is the situation?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

The messenger's gaze fell to the ground. "The village is holding, but just barely while they make sure the evacuation proceed as planned. The prince fears that if we don't act swiftly, we'll lose Heartglen."

Uther's expression grew stern as he took in the information. "Then is its aid that he will get," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Prepare the men. We ride for Heartglen at first light."

Marwyn nodded, his thoughts racing. "But what of Stratholme?" he asked, gesturing to the city behind them. "We have yet to deal with the traitors within and the tainted grain."

Uther's eyes searched the captain's for a moment before he spoke. "Their safety is paramount" he said firmly. "We will leave a contingent to secure the city and continue the investigation. If what the Prince said is true, then we have to prepare."

Marwyn understood the gravity of Uther's words and nodded in agreement. "Very well, my lord," he said, his voice tight with determination. "I'll see to it that the necessary troops are ready for departure."

As the messenger turned to leave, Uther called out to him, "Send word to Ballador and Sage. They are to meet us at the city gates immediately. As this is an evacuation we speak off, I would need their assistance to safeguard the villagers there."

The messenger saluted and spurred his horse back into a gallop, disappearing as quickly as he had come. Turning to Marwyn, Uther placed a firm hand on the captain's shoulder. "I trust you to keep the peace here," he said. "But do not let your guard down. We cannot tell what lies ahead."

Marwyn nodded, his resolve unwavering. "I will not fail you, Highlord," he said, his eyes meeting Uther's. "Or the prince."

With a nod, the paladin turned away, his heavy footsteps echoing through the camp as he helped assist the troops. The night was still and quiet, the only sounds the distant cries of the night watch and the mournful dread of the wind through the city walls.

What are you planning for Arthas?, Uther thought for his pupil, observing the precautions he had made for the people.

Dawn had broke, and the climate around Heartglen was stable for now as the citizens were lined up and escorted to their journey to the capital city. Falric's men, their armor gleaming in the early light, escorted them with a solemn dignity that spoke of their respect for the tremendous sacrifice these people were making.

The dwarven riflemen, steadfast and unyielding, took their positions behind the sturdy barricades, their eyes sharp and their grips firm on their weapons. Human crossbowmen lined the fortified towers, their gazes scanning the horizon for any sign of hostiles. The mortar teams checked and rechecked their ammo stocks, their eyes never leaving the looming grain towers that marked the line of defense.

The sound of hoofbeats grew louder as a messenger approached the makeshift command post where Arthas was stationed. The prince's gaze snapped up, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon before recognizing the crest of his homeland. The messenger, panting from his hard ride, dismounted and hastily approached, kneeling before his sovereign.

"Your Highness," he gasped, his voice ragged from exertion. "Lord Uther sends word. Reinforcements are on their way, and they will arrive by nightfall."

Arthas's eyes narrowed with a mix of relief and skepticism. "Is that all?" he asked.

The messenger nodded, his chest heaving. "Yes, my lord. He sends his apologies for the delay, but the forces have encountered some difficulties on the road. But he will on his way."

The prince's expression softened slightly. "Thank you," he said. "Your service is commended. Rest now, and assist with the evacuation if you're ready."

The messenger rose, his eyes flicking briefly to Jaina before he retreated. Arthas turned to her, the weight of their conversation from the night before heavy on his shoulders. "Jaina," he began, his voice gentle. "Are you... are you alright?"

Jaina, her eyes still on the retreating back of the messenger, took a deep breath. She knew that she needed to tread lightly, to not push him away when he was already teetering on the brink. "I am," she said, her voice measured. "We're ready."

From the vantage point of the overlooking hills, the sinister figures of the Liches Araj and Ras surveyed the unsuspecting village of Heartglen with cold, calculating gazes. The air grew taut with malice as the two necromancers, shrouded in the unmistakable aura of the undead, raised their skeletal hands in unison. With a cackling laugh that sent shivers down the spines of the living, they called forth their vile creations—the Meat Wagons. The grotesque vehicles lurched into motion, their wooden wheels squeaking in protest as they rolled down the incline, pulled by the shambling forms of the mindless undead.

"The time for the final harvest approaches, Ras," Araj hissed, his decaying lips peeling back to reveal teeth that gleamed like shards of ice. "The scent of fear is ripe upon the air."

Ras, the more stoic of the two, nodded in agreement. "Their pain will only serve to fuel our master's power," he intoned, his voice a chilling echo of the Lich King's own.

The Meat Wagons grew closer, the sound of their approach a cacophony of clanking metal and the sickening squelch of rotting flesh. With a final, dramatic gesture, the Liches sent a wave of dark energy coursing through the air, and the wagons unleashed their macabre payload. The sky above Heartglen grew dark with the obscene projectiles, a storm of flesh and bone that rained down upon the village.

Buildings crumbled under the impact, their wooden beams splintering into a thousand pieces. The streets ran red with the gore that spattered the cobblestones, and the air was filled with the screams of the villagers as they were bombarded by the grisly remnants of the Scourge's previous victims. The stench of decay and the metallic tang of blood hung in the air, a miasma of horror that seemed to suffocate all who breathed it in.

The villagers, who were on their way out of the village, began to panic. "Make sure the evacuation is organized! We cannot afford a possible stampede!", Falric roared to his men at the rear.

"Steady your ground, lads!", One of the Riflemen called out, taking aim. "We'll shoot'em when we see their whites on their eyes!"

"Hold on and maintain formation!", Falric ordered his footmen as their shields were raised for any projectiles send onto them. "We have to hold the line!"

With the unholy shrieks of the incoming ghouls piercing the air, Araj's skeletal hand shot forth, fingers splayed in a gesture of malevolent command. The ground beneath their feet trembled as the horde of decayed creatures, driven by an insatiable hunger, surged towards the defensive barricade that shielded the living from their grasp.

"Now, dwarfs!" Falric bellowed, his deep voice resonating through the chaos. The dwarven riflemen, steadfast in their resolve, leveled their weapons, their eyes narrowed with grim determination. The crack of gunfire echoed through the streets, the bullets tearing through the rotten flesh of the charging undead, sending them reeling back into the growing sea of their brethren.

Jaina, her eyes aglow with arcane energy, watched the approaching Meat Wagons with a fury that matched the fire in her soul. Her hand rose, fingers poised to unleash a maelstrom of destructive power. "Mortar teams," she shouted, her voice cutting through the din of battle. "Fire at will!"

The mortar crews, their faces set in lines of concentration, nodded in understanding. They had been waiting for this moment, their sweat-slicked hands adjusting the angles of their weapons with a precision born of desperation. The thunderous boom of the first mortar echoed through the battlefield, its fiery projectile soaring high into the sky before arcing down towards the advancing wagons.

The first explosion rocked the ground, sending a shockwave that rippled through the ranks of the Scourge. The Meat Wagon it struck disintegrated into a shower of splinters and the putrid remnants of its gruesome cargo. The air was filled with the acrid smell of burning flesh and the screams of the undead, their unnatural vitality extinguished in an instant.

"Again!" Jaina called, her voice a siren's song of destruction. The mortars responded in kind, their fiery embrace reaching out to embrace the next line of wagons. The explosions grew more frequent, painting the dawn sky with an eerie, crimson hue as the Scourge's siege weapons were reduced to smoldering ruins. It has already begun.

As the Meat Wagons crested the hill, the defenders of the Alliance braced themselves behind the barricade. The Ghouls, driven by an insatiable hunger for the living, charged forth with a ferocity that sent chills down the spines of the men, women, and children of Heartglen. Falric's footmen, banners fluttering in the wind of their own valor, met them head-on with a wall of steel and determination. The clang of swords and the sickening crunch of bone filled the air as the undead were repelled, their rotten limbs flying in every direction as Arthas led them at the front.

Jaina's eyes burning with the cold fire of the arcane, watched the battle unfold with a fury that mirrored the flaming emblem on her chest. With a gesture that seemed almost delicate, she whispered an ancient incantation, and the very air around her grew colder. A blizzard of shards, sharp as the frostbitten edges of an iceberg, tore into the advancing horde. The Ghouls and Abominations recoiled, their unliving flesh pierced by the biting hailstorm that danced with the malicious grace of a banshee's laughter. The icy barrage bought the footmen precious moments to regroup and strike back with renewed vigor.

The two water elementals she had conjured, towering behemoths of liquid rage, surged forth to stand beside her. Their translucent forms shimmered with the power of the frozen seas, and in their wake, the very ground froze solid, trapping the undead in a prison of ice. They smashed into the onslaught with fists like glaciers, sending the monsters flying with the might of avalanches. The elementals' touch was deathly cold, freezing the life from the Scourge with each crushing blow. The ground crackled under their feet as they moved, leaving a trail of frost in their wake.

At the front, Arthas went ahead and fought with his me. His swings were precise, each one striking true and powerful enough to send necromancers and their minions sprawling. His war hammer sang a tune of retribution, each note resonating with the power of the Light, cleaving through the dark magic that held the undead together. His footsteps were a thunderous drumbeat that heralded doom for the Scourge. With every necromancer that fell, the tide of the battle shifted slightly in favor of the living.

In spite of the conflict within, he pushed on, driven by a fierce need to protect his people. His blade was swift and unyielding, cutting down the necromancers that sought to bolster the undead ranks with their dark arts. The necromancers' incantations turned to gurgles in their throats as Arthas' hammer met their unholy visages, silencing their foul magic and sending their spirits reeling back to the cold embrace of the Lich King.

Dwarven Riflemen and human crossbowmen perched on rooftops and behind makeshift barricades, raining a hailstorm of bullets and bolts upon the relentless tide of ghouls and abominations that surged forth. The Scourge's ranks were beginning to falter, but the necromancers orchestrating the assault remained unscathed from behind.

Araj's eyes narrowed, his skeletal face contorting in rage as he beheld his undead minions being cut down. He could not abide this affront to his master's will. Raising a bony hand, he chanted ancient incantations that sent a shiver through the very air. With a gesture of icy contempt, he released a frost nova, the frigid blast radiating outwards in a deadly aura. The ground trembled as the cold consumed the life from the defenders, leaving a ring of shivering, lifeless forms in its wake.

The sudden, brutal loss of their comrades jolted the remaining soldiers to action. Falric's eyes went wide with a mix of fear and fury, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "They will pay for this treachery!" he bellowed, his voice booming through the chaos. His men, driven by a mix of loyalty and vengeance, surged forward, their steel and valor shimmering like a beacon in the dark heart of the storm.

"Get back, Falric!" Arthas ordered the captain as he watched the carnage unfold before him. "Continue coordinating with the rest of our men. I'll take it from here!" With a battle cry, he charged towards Araj, Light's Vengeance held high.

The defenders' resolve as unyielding as the steel of their weapons. Falric's footmen fought on with their survival. Yet, as the hours passed, the clanging of steel grew more desperate, the crack of the mortars less frequent. The dwarven riflemen, their ammo pouches depleted, glanced at each other with grim expressions, their fingers itching to pull the triggers of their now-silent rifles.

"Mortars!" Jaina called out, her voice strained with effort as she maintained the waning magical barriers. "Conserve your ammo! We must make every shot count!"

The mortar crews, drenched in sweat and grime, nodded in grim acknowledgment. They had been firing relentlessly since the first wagon had come into view, and now their supplies were running dangerously low. The dwarf in charge of the nearest team shouted back, "We're doin' our best, lass! But even the sturdiest rock has a limit!"

Another dwarf, manning the mortar, wiped a greasy hand across his brow and checked his ammo count. "Alright, lads," he yelled to his team. "Let's make 'em count!" With a final adjustment, he dropped the next round into the tube and lit the fuse. The explosion sent another volley of fiery death hurtling towards the advancing Meat Wagons, obliterating one more of the foul machines.

On the ground, the footmen braced themselves as the ghouls grew ever more aggressive, sensing the waning power of the mortars. Falric, exhausted bu unbroken called out, "Hold the line! Remember what we're fighting against!"

One of his men called out. "Most civilians have been evacuated, sir! But where are those reinforcements?"

"They're on their way, but we have to hold fast!"

The soldiers, their eyes gleaming with the light of determination, hefted their weapons and braced for the next wave. They fought with a variety of tactics, some using their shields to shove the ghouls back into the path of their comrades' swords, while others took advantage of the icy ground left by Jaina's elementals, their booted feet skating with deadly precision as they dispatched the stumbling abominations.

Arthas and Araj clashed in the heart of the battle, their movements a deadly dance of shadow and light. The Lich's spells of frost and decay crashed against the prince's hammer, the impact sending shards of ice flying in every direction. The ground around them grew slick with the remnants of the defeated undead and neither were backing down.

"Your... persistence... is admirable," Araj hissed, his skeletal jaw clacking with each syllable. His eyes, cold and blue as the heart of a glacier, gleamed with a malicious curiosity. "Mal'Ganis spoke highly of you, my Prince. I am eager to see what makes you so special."

Arthas's grip on his weapon, his knuckles white with rage. The mention of that name was a raw wound, one he had thought long buried beneath the weight of his own guilt. "Mal'Ganis will be dead," he growled through gritted teeth, his swings growing more furious with each word. "And you will soon follow!"

Araj's laughter was the chilling sound of the wind through a graveyard at midnight. "Ah, but the dead have a way of clinging to the living, do they not?" He conjured a wall of frost before him, the shimmering barricade absorbing the hammer's blows with a sound like shattering glass. "You bear his mark, prince. Can you truly claim to have escaped his grasp?"

The Lich's taunts stung like the bite of a thousand winters. Arthas's eyes narrowed, and he took a step back, his hammer poised for the next strike. "I am no one's pawn," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Least of all his."

"We shall see," Araj said, his skeletal hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. The air grew colder as Araj's power grew, his spells weaving a cocoon of death around Arthas. The prince's breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to break free, his eyes never leaving the Lich's sneering visage.

With a roar that seemed to shake the very heavens, Arthas threw himself at the Lich, his hammer arcing through the air in a fiery blaze. The frost barrier shattered, and for a moment, it seemed that Araj would fall. But the Lich was ancient and cunning, his bony fingers snatching at the very fabric of reality to pull himself out of harm's way. He hovered above the ground, his robes billowing around him like a shroud, and unleashed a barrage of frost bolts that stitched the air with cold death.

Arthas dove to the side, rolling to avoid the lethal projectiles, his eyes never leaving Araj.

The desperation in Heartglen was palpable, the air thick with the scent of burning gunpowder and the acrid stench of the Scourge. The mortar crews, their ammo spent, looked to Falric with hope fading from their eyes. The goblin engineer, his hat askew, shook his head sadly. "No more, boss," he said, patting the cold metal of his now-silent weapon. "We gave 'em all we had."

Falric's gaze swept over the battlefield, his heart heavy with the weight of his men's lives. He knew they had fought valiantly, but it was not enough. The undead surged forward, their numbers seemingly inexhaustible, the cobblestone streets stained with the blood of the brave.

Jaina, her mana drained and her spells spent, slumped against the wall, her eyes unfocused and her breaths shallow. The elementals she had summoned had long ago dissipated, their power waning with the last of her strength. Yet, she held on, her eyes darting from one corner of the city to the other, searching for any sign of a turning tide.

On the ground, the footmen fought with the ferocity of the cornered, their swings and stabs becoming more erratic as their energy dwindled. The dwarves, their rifles now silent, had resorted to the time-honored tradition of their ancestors—hand-to-hand combat with their axes. The clang of steel on steel resonated through the city, punctuated by the sickening crunch of bone and the anguished cries of the dying.

It seemed that all was lost, when a thunderous sound, like the wrath of the very heavens, echoed through the streets of Heartglen. The undead paused, their rotting heads tilting upwards as if in silent question.

Then, like a beacon, the gleaming silhouettes of knights on their noble steeds emerged from the fog of war. The sun glinted off their silver armor, casting an ethereal glow that seemed to burn away the shadows. The banner of the Silver Hand fluttered proudly to defend these lands.

"For the Light! For the King!" boomed a voice, clear and strong, as Uther led his knights into the fray. The sight of them was like a spark in a barrel of gunpowder, igniting the spirits of the weary defenders. Arthas's eyes grew wide with hope and disbelief as he recognized the leader of the charge—his friend, his mentor coming to save them.

Turning to Sage and Ballador, two of his most trusted paladins, Uther bellowed, "Brothers, the people of Heartglen must not suffer further! Rally the remaining villagers and escort them to the Capital City! Let not a single soul fall into their grasp today!"

The two paladins nodded, their expressions grim but determined. "Aye, Uther," they responded in unison, their voices a testament to their unwavering loyalty. They spurred their horses into action, their holy aura casting a comforting light as they approached the huddled, terrified civilians. The villagers looked up, their faces etched with hope as the gleaming knights offered them a chance at salvation.

"Fear not, for the Light is with you," Sage assured them, his voice a bastion of strength amidst the chaos. "We will lead you to safety."

Ballador nodded gravely, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Quickly, now! Time is of the essence!"

In the center of the chaos, Arthas and Araj continued their lethal dance. Each blow was met with an icy counter, each spell with a fiery rebuttal. The air grew colder, the very ground beneath them crackling with the power of Araj's dark arts. Yet, Arthas was unyielding, his eyes never leaving the Lich's cold gaze. His mind was a whirlwind of strategy and emotion, each swing of his hammer a silent declaration of his unyielding will.

Above them, the skies grew darker, the clouds heavy with the promise of a storm. The wind picked up, carrying the cries of the dying and the roars of the living. Arthas felt a surge of power from within, a warmth that seemed to burn away the chill of the Lich's magic. He knew that he had to end this, to prevent the same fate from befalling other cities as it had his beloved Lordaeron.

Summoning every ounce of his strength, he swung his hammer in a wide arc, the hammer's divine light cutting through the air. Araj, his eyes wide with surprise, could not react in time. The hammer connected with a resounding crack, striking the Lich's torso with a force that seemed to echo through eternity. The impact sent shards of ice and bone flying in every direction as the Lich's form shattered into a million frozen pieces.

The sudden silence was deafening. The undead around Araj's shattered remains paused, their unholy animation faltering for a brief moment. Then, with a shriek of rage that seemed to tear the very fabric of the world, Ras Frostwhisper called for retreat. The remaining Scourge forces, recognizing the loss of their leader and the arrival of the Silver Hand, turned tail and fled into the shadows from which they had emerged.

Arthas, his breaths heavy with the exertion of battle, watched the retreating undead with a mix of triumph and trepidation. His eyes found Uther, who had fought his way to the prince's side. "Perfect timing, Uther!", the Prince exclaimed in exahustion.

"Don't celebrate yet, son!", the Paladin replied, swinging his hammer to instantly cleave off the head of an Abomination coming right at him. "The battle's far from over!"

As the last of the retreating Scourge disappeared into the distance, the air grew still once more. The knights of the Silver Hand and the soldiers of Lordaeron, their armor scarred and their bodies weary, took a moment to catch their breath, the clanging of steel slowly fading away. Falric leaned heavily on his sword, his gaze meeting Arthas' own, the question of the prince's true intentions lingering unspoken between them.

Uther, his eyes gleaming with the light of the Holy Power, dismounted from his steed and approached Arthas, his armor gleaming despite the grime of battle. The two men stood in silence for a long moment, the gravity of their situation heavy upon them.

"Thank you, old friend," Arthas said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Your arrival turned the tide."

Uther's expression was a complex tapestry of relief, concern, and something else—a hint of doubt that had not been there before. "I received your message," he said, his voice measured and calm. "Your warning came just in time. The people of Heartglen are on their way to the Capital City as we speak."

The two men shared a brief nod of understanding. "What news of Stratholme?" Arthas asked, worried.

Uther's face grew grim, his gaze never leaving Arthas'. "Still stands as you wished," he began, choosing his words with care. "Marwyn and his men have been working tirelessly to contain the spread of the plague. Although the revelations of treason troubled me"

Falric, his eyes reflecting the confusion of the unfolding events, turned to Arthas. "What's happening in Stratholme?" he asked, his voice thick with concern. Jaina, her strength somewhat restored by the brief respite, pushed herself upright, her eyes searching Arthas' for answers.

Uther's gaze grew solemn as he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of the grave news. "Stratholme has been infiltrated by treachery," he said, his eyes never leaving Arthas. "Baron Rivendare and the House of Barov has pledged their allegiance to Kel'thuzad's Cult. The city is fine at the moment, with the civilians evacuated to a camp outside to be inspected for any signs of the plague and shipments seized"

"We have been aware of the Baron's allegiance from Kel'thuzad when we first encountered him", Jaina recounted. "But the House of Barov too?"

"Likely seduced the the promises of power or more wealth", Falric told her, sounding miffed at their actions. "In spite of their status and holdings in the Kingdom, it never seemed to be enough for them"

Uther took a deep, solemn breath and continued his report, his eyes never leaving Arthas's face. "The situation in Stratholme is grim, indeed," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of the news. "Baron Rivendare and the House of Barov have been discovered to have a hand in the spread of the plague and are now considered fugitives. The rule of the city has been transferred to Lord Goodwin, as he seems to be the only leader we can trust in this dire time."

Arthas's gaze remained steady, his expression a mask of stoic resolve. "When I received Marwyn's letters," he began, his voice low and measured, "I finally have the proof I need to convict him. So I gave him the authority to act in my name, to do whatever was necessary to apprehend them."

Falric stared at his prince in disbelief, as did Jaina. "You...you ordered their arrest?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," Arthas confirmed, his eyes never leaving Jaina's. "I had my suspicions," he began, his voice tight with the burden of his actions. "Before I even left for this mission, I had given orders to Marwyn to keep a close eye on Baron Rivendare. The man had always been... ambitious. I feared he might take matters into his own hands." He paused, his gaze flicking to Falric and then back to Jaina. "As it turns out, those suspicions were not unfounded. Marwyn uncovered a plot, one that would have seen Stratholme fall to the undead by turning its citizens into one of them."

Uther stepped closer, his eyes reflecting the solemnity of his words. "Arthas is right," he said, his voice firm and resolute. "The letters he received from Marwyn were troubling. The evidence was clear—Baron Rivendare had been working with Kel'thuzad, spreading the plague through the grain and ensuring its swift spread." He cast a meaningful look at Falric. "It was a betrayal that cut deep, my friend. But we had to act swiftly to save the city and its people."

With a heavy sigh, Arthas ran a hand through his hair, the weight of his secret threatening to crush him. "I am truly sorry for keeping you both in the dark," he said, his voice filled with genuine regret. "I had hoped to shield you from the horrors that I've witnessed, but I see now that I've only bred mistrust." Falric and Jaina exchanged a wary glance, their curiosity piqued by the prince's sudden candor.

Jaina looked at Arthas, her eyes filled with questions. "What happens next?" she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

Arthas took a deep breath, his eyes hardening. "We find and apprehend the Dreadlord Mal'Ganis," he uttered in restrained anger. "He is Kel'thuzad's master, and leader of the Scourge."

At this time at least.

"Mal'Ganis?" Uther echoed, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I have not heard that name before. And what is this Dreadlord you speak of?"

"Uther, do you still remember the Blackrock Clan preaching how Demons would return and tear this world asunder?", Arthas asked his mentor.

The Paladin nodded solemnly, his eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation. "Yes, I recall the Blackrock Clan's mad ravings," he said, his voice tinged with the echoes of past battles. "But demons... I had thought them mere figments of their twisted imaginations."

Arthas's gaze was unwavering as he met Uther's. "They were not," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of his own dark revelations. "Mal'Ganis is one of the Dreadlords, among the most cunning and powerful of the demonic commanders sent by them. He has been orchestrating the spread of the plague, turning the people of Lordaeron into a mindless army of the undead.

"Stratholme," Falric whispered, his eyes wide with horror as he processed the name of the city where it is the second largest all throughout the Kingdom. "You mean to say that this...this Dreadlord, Mal'Ganis, is there? With them?"

Arthas nodded gravely,because he should be there at this time. "Yes, Falric," he said. "Stratholme is his next move. Without Kel'thuzad and his forces diminished, he would see to it that he would replenish his numbers within the city"

While also hiding the fact that he needed to eliminate the Dreadlord as early as possible. And to not let history repeat itself by the need to purge Stratholme again. And to make sure Frostmourne is dealt with once the Dreadlord is dead. "We'll move back to Stratholme to see the conditions of the citizens first."

Jaina, her gaze flitting between Arthas and Falric, spoke up then, her voice filled with the warmth of friendship and the steel of resolve. "You both go on ahead," she said, her eyes flickering to Uther, who nodded in silent understanding. "Uther and I will rest here and recover our strength. We will follow as soon as we can, but the prince and you must go now. The people of Stratholme need you."

Arthas hesitated, his gaze flicking to Jaina's exhausted form. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice tinged with genuine concern.

"Yes," she assured him, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "We'll take our time to rest. Surely a few minutes won't be too much of a hassle?"

With a nod of acceptance, Arthas turned to Uther. "Rest well," he said, his voice filled with the weight of his own unspoken goodbye. "We'll meet you back at the city."

And with that, the two men set off, their steeds' hooves echoing through the quiet streets of Andorhal. The shadows grew long as they disappeared into the horizon, the sun setting on the ruins of a city that had once been a bastion of life, now a grim reminder of the relentless march of the Scourge.

Behind them, Jaina watched their retreating forms with a heavy heart, sighing heavily. The prince she had known, the man she had trusted with her life, was now a creature of shadow and mystery, his thoughts shrouded in secrets that she could not begin to fathom.

As the two departed, Uther turned to Jaina, his eyes filled with understanding. "You wish to speak of him," he said, his voice gentle.

Jaina nodded, looking down. "I do," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "His...he has changed, Uther. He's become so distant, so secretive. Suspicious even."

The paladin's expression grew solemn, his gaze drifting to the horizon where their friends had just vanished. "The weight of his crown is a heavy one," he said, his voice laden with empathy. "The burdens of leadership are not easily borne."

"It's more than that," Jaina insisted, her voice trembling. "He speaks of things...horrors that he claims I cannot even begin to imagine. And his foresight, it's uncanny. He seems to know what's going to happen before it does."

Uther studied her for a moment before speaking. "Jaina," he began, his voice gentle but firm, "I have known Arthas since he was a boy. He has always borne his burdens with honor and valor. But what you speak of...it is not like him to keep such things hidden from us." He paused, his eyes searching hers for understanding. "Tell me, what did he say to you?"

Jaina took a deep breath, her eyes misting over as she recalled their conversation. "He had spoken of seeing the consequences of our actions, of the price of inaction," she began, her voice shaking slightly. "He talked about a fate worse than death, and I...I cannot shake the feeling that he was speaking of his own experiences, not just hypotheticals. But it doesn't make sense since I do not know what did did." She swallowed hard. "I fear that he is hiding something from us, something that is eating away at him, something that he feels too much guilt to share."

Uther nodded, his eyes clouded with his own memories of a time when Arthas had confided in him. "I remember," he said softly, "during our last training session, he confided with me about the dangers of power, the need to become what we fight against to protect others, as well as the lines crossed in pursuit of following the right path."

The sorceress was surprised as she was intrigued. Both she and Uther had known that Arthas tend to be impulsive, prideful and had a rebellious streak as he grew up. But this...sounded like a whole different person that Uther was speaking about.

The Paladin continued. "I thought that time, perhaps he has decided to change himself to be a better leader to his people. But when I saw him recently, I felt there was a...a shadow that I could see in his eyes, as if he feared the darkness within himself." He took a step closer, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "A shadow that loomed over him, taunting him as if it were telling him the mistakes he would made and how he wanted to prevent them. Perhaps," he suggested, "whatever he is keeping from us is something he feels is too great a burden to share."

Jaina looked into Uther's eyes, her heart heavy with the burden of her own thoughts. "He said something to me last night," she began, her voice barely audible over the distant wails of the dying city. "He talked about watching everything he loves turn to dust, and being the one to cause it. It was as if wanted to tell me, or confess something, but the whatever the he hid had held him back."

Uther's hand tightened on her shoulder, his gaze filled with a mix of pain and concern. "What did he say, Jaina?" he asked, his voice a gentle coax.

"He told me that I couldn't understand," she replied, her voice thick with emotion. "That no one could, really. He said that I haven't seen what he has, that I haven't had to make the choices he had." She took a shaky breath. "It's as if he had done something that he had regretted, and that he desperately want to atone for it."

The paladin's expression grew grave as he considered her words. "Arthas has always been one to bear his burdens in silence," he mused. "But this...this is something more. Perhaps it tormented him." He paused, his eyes searching hers for the truth she hadn't yet spoken. "What do you think it is, Jaina? What could be so vile that it keeps him from telling us?"

Jaina's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the last rays of the setting sun painted the sky in shades of crimson and gold. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice trembling. "But I fear it would become a danger to him." She took a deep breath, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I just wish I could help him," she whispered. "I wish I could take some of that pain away."

Uther looked at Jaina with a solemn expression, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. "Jaina," he began, "you are one of the few people who have ever truly managed to speak to Arthas with your heart. He values you and the moments he spoke with you. It is my belief that if he is to open up about whatever torments him, it will be to you."

Jaina felt a knot tighten in her stomach at the thought of being the one to bear the brunt of Arthas's secrets, but she knew that Uther's advice was rooted in his deep understanding of the prince. She had always been there for him. "I'll do my best," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

"That's all I ask," Uther said, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. "Do not push him, but be there for him. Perhaps, the simple presence of a trusted companion can be more comforting than any words."

Jaina nodded, her eyes never leaving Uther's. "I understand," she said firmly, steeling herself for the trials ahead. "I won't leave his side, and when the time is right, I'll be ready to listen."

The paladin gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "That is all we can do for now," he said. "We must trust in the Light to guide us through these dark times, and in the strength of our friendship to support each other."

"We must not delay any longer," Uther urged, his voice a solemn reminder of the urgency of their mission. "We need to catch up with Arthas and Falric, to ensure Stratholme is secured and to intercept this Dreadlord, Mal'Ganis."

Jaina nodded, her mind racing with the implications of what they were about to face. "What of the village here?" she asked, looking back at the shattered remnants of Heartglen. "They've suffered so much already."

Uther's gaze followed hers, his expression a mix of sorrow and resolve. "We will leave a contingent of my knights behind to tend to the wounded and fortify the area," he said firmly. "But we must push on at once."

With that, he turned to one of his men. "Sir Krovus," he called out. "You will stay here. Rally the survivors, tend to the injured, and prepare the village for what may come. I leave you in charge until we return or send word."

"Yes, Lord Uther," the knight responded, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. "We will not fail you."

"Let's go," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. "The sooner we reach Stratholme, the better of making sure it's safe."

Uther nodded. "We will, lass," he said. "We trust that our friends have the situation under control until we arrive."

Chapter Text

Antonidas had always been a busy man as Grand Magus of the Kirin Tor. Right now, he meticulously recorded his findings on the latest wave of the mysterious plague that had ravaged the lands of Lordaeron.

Until a knock came into his room. "Enter," he called.

The door open, and Archmage Modera stepped in. "Master Antonidas," she quickly said. "you are needed in the council chamber at once."

Antonidas set down his quill and leaned back in his chair to look at her. "What is it, Modera?" he asked in curiosity.

"Former Archmage and Council of Six member Kel'Thuzad," she said simply. "He has been captured by the Alliance and brought before the council."

The blood drained from Antonidas' face. "What? How?". Kel'Thuzad, the man he had once considered a friend, a fellow seeker of knowledge lost to his own desire for dark arts. To hear that he had been found, and not only that, but captured, was news to them.

"Lady Proudmoore," Modera revealed. "She and Prince Arthas Menethil had apprehended him, bound and unable to use his magic back at Andorhal."

Antonidas knew Jaina to be prodigious and resourceful mage, but even she could not have taken down Kel'Thuzad alone. But still, it was a remarkable feat to stand against someone who was once a member of the Council of Six.

"What of the plague?" he asked.

"The Council will speak with him," Modera assured him. "But they wish for your presence at once."

Antonidas nodded as he straightened himself. "I will come at once," he promksed.

When the doors swung open, the room was alive with the gossips and debates of the gathered Council of Six along with other Archmages present. At the center of it all was Kel'Thuzad, looking at them with malice and spite.

The former Kirin Tor Council member gaze flicked up to meet Antonidas with a rather unsettling smile. "Antonidas," he greeted. "How good it is to see the face of an old friend in such... trying times."

Antonidas' remained stoic as he stepped closer to the bound necromancer. "You forsook that title when you delved into the arts that should have remained buried," he coldly replied. "The paths you took are not those of the Kirin Tor, nor are they those of a man who values life and knowledge in equal measure."

His former colleague scoffed at the proclamation. "Is that so?" he sneered. "And tell me, my friend, was it not the pursuit of knowledge that led your council to cast me out? Is it not the hunger for understanding that drives all sorcerers to push the boundaries of the arcane?"

"You speak of the pursuit of knowledge as if it grants you the right to play god," Antonidas spat. "You have brought nothing but death and despair with your twisted experiments."

Kel'Thuzad merely smirked at the claim "Is it not the duty of every mage to learn all that they can?" he challenged. "To peer into the very fabric of existence and pull forth its secrets, no matter the cost? Was that not what our masters taught us?"

"They taught us to respect the balance," Antonidas corrected. "To wield power responsibly. You have forgotten those lessons yourself."

Kel'thuzad's smile grew wider at him. "But the world is ever changing, my old friend," he taunted. "What was once forbidden is now merely... misunderstood. And as for the balance, it tips ever in favor of those who dare to seize power."

Modera stepped forward. "According to the reports given by the mages who escorted him, as well as the account of Lady Jaina Proudmoore, Kel'Thuzad has not only been involved in the creation of the plague but has been orchestrating its spread across Lordaeron."

Needless to say, it caused an uproar with those present at the chamber. "Is this true?" Antonidas gravely asked of him. "Kel'Thuzad, tell me that you did not bring this horror upon our people."

The necromancer gave him a smug and prideful smile. "Indeed it is," he cackled. "My 'children', have found a new purpose in this world. A world that shunned them, that cast them out, now embraces them in their suffering. And they are most grateful for the home I've provided."

The chamber became rampant of outrage and disgust, the mages shouting accusations and demands for an explanation. Their prisoner reveled in their revulsion, and Antonidas could see that clearly.

Antonidas' staff slammed into the stone floor and the mages fell silent. "Who is it that you serve, Kel'Thuzad?", the Grand Magus asked of him. "What dark master has twisted your mind and corrupted your soul to bring about this plague?"

Kel'Thuzad's sneer grew. "You would not understand, you old fool," he spat with disdain. "The seeds have already been planted. Soon, you will all see the truth, once it had taken its roots."

"Tell us," Antonidas demanded again, making it clear that he will not stand for his madness. "Who is the master that commands you?"

Kel'Thuzad chuckled. "You seek answers where none can be found," he said. "But you will learn soon enough, my friend. If any of you live to see the dawn of the new era I have helped ushered in."

His former colleague was not pleased and he took a step closer. "You will tell us," he warned. "You will reveal the source of this corruption, or I will tear it from your mind piece by piece."

Kel'Thuzad leaned his head back. "Be my guest," he rasped in challenge.

Antonidas's eyes narrowed, his hand shaking with barely contained fury. The Grand Magus reached out with his own arcane might, placing his hand upon Kel'Thuzad's forehead.

The necromancer's mind was a labyrinth of decay, his thoughts a cacophony of screams and whispers that made Antonidas' skin crawl. He pushed deeper, searching for the truth hidden amidst the madness. The whispers grew louder, taunting and seductive, but he remained steadfast, his will unyielding.

Suddenly, Antonidas recoiled, his hand flying away from Kel'Thuzad as if burned. He staggered back in horror and revulsion. "What... what have they done to you?" he whispered, causing those present to be taken back at the sudden and negative reaction from the Grand Magus.

Kel'Thuzad's chuckled. "They have set me free," he crooned. "As they would do for the rest of this world"

"Your patience is admirable, Kel'Thuzad," Antonidas said through gritted teeth, regaining his composure. "But your time for revelry is at an end. You will be detained, and we will uncover every last detail of your treachery."

Kel'Thuzad's grin remained plastered on his face. "I'd be honored," he quipped. "But why so hasty, my friend? We have all the time in the world to reminisce about the old days of the Kirin Tor."

"Those days are long past," Antonidas scoffed. "The peace and tranquility of Dalaran and the rest will not be broken by your delusions."

The necromancer chuckled. "Peace and tranquility?" he echoed. "Such quaint notions. But you will have your fill of memories. When the dust settles and the new order arises, it is our history that will be rewritten. And who knows," he mused, "perhaps you will find yourself playing a part in it yet."

He couldn't tolerate this behaviour no longer and the Grand Magus looked over to the guards. "Take him away," Antonidas ordered. The guards stepped forward as they tightened Kel'Thuzad's restraints.

As the guards dragged Kel'Thuzad away, he found Rhonin, whose face was of anguish and despair as he read the letter from Arthas, detailing the tragedy at Andorhal. "Rhonin, my friend" Kel'Thuzad called out with mock sympathy. "My deepest condolences for your loss. Such instances are bound to be collateral."

Rhonin's hand clenched around the parchment, the paper crumpling in his grip "You monster," he hissed the moment he looked at Kel'thuzad. The mages who were with him, held him back from doing anything drastic.

"Rhonin," Antonidas spoke in deep sympathy for the Archmage, "His crimes will not go unanswered. You have our word."

Antonidas' gaze softened as he took the crumpled letter from Rhonin's trembling hand. He carefully unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning over the painfully inked words. "The prince has written more than just his condolences, my friend," he added.

"What is this about, Antonidas?" Rhonin's voice was strained, his eyes flickering between the archmage and the letter.

Antonidas looked on the parchment for a moment longer before he spoke. "The prince has a warning," he said, his voice heavy with the burden of the unspoken words. "He wishes for you to pass it on to your wife, who is sister to the Ranger-General of Quel'thalas, Sylvanas. It seems that even in the midst of his own battles, Prince Arthas has uncovered a potential threat to her homeland."

The mages exchanged puzzled glances. "Magister Dar'Khan Drathir," Modera whispered. "What could he possibly mean?"

Antonidas cleared his throat. "Bid your wife, Lady Vereesa, to warn Sylvanas of Magister Dar'Khan Drathir. His loyalty to their cause is in question. He is not to be trusted and to be watched closely.""

"But Dar'Khan is one of the most esteemed of her people as one of their most powerful magisters who distinguished themselves in the Second War," Rhonin lamented, after Vereesa had told him before. "What could have happened to make the Prince of Lordaeron suspect him?"

"It is a bold accusation," Modera pointed out. "But we cannot rule out any possibilities in these times."

Antonidas nodded. "It may be that the Prince has uncovered some nefarious plot that involves Dar'Khan," he mused. "We tread carefully. If true, this betrayal could be catastrophic."

Rhonin nodded. "I will send a message to Vereesa immediately," he said. "She must know of this... warning."

Antonidas placed a comforting hand on Rhonin's shoulder. "Do so, my friend."

The journey from Heartglen to Startholme was a silent one. Despite the measures he had placed onto the city, Arthas could not help but feel agitated whenever the subject of the city comes into mind. Even with the newfound purpose to rewrite what was written before him, he just felt nervous. Paranoid even, especially since any error made by forces outside his control would spiral into a new, unwanted result. And that increased somewhat when he found the camp that was established by his orders.

As he and Falric approached, they found Marwyn recently giving orders to one of his men before he saw the two of them approach him. He looked relieved at the sight of the Prince. "Your Highness," Marwyn greeted with a bow. "We've been expecting you."

Arthas dismounted from his steed, as did Falric with his own horse, looking at the camp where they saw the huddled forms of the refugees with fear and uncertainty. "How goes the evacuation?" Arthas asked.

Marwyn stepped closer to him. "It proceeds as you've ordered, sire," he reported. "We've managed to keep the grain situation under control, but the civilians are growing restless because they have been let out of their homes. But they have been provided with substitutes for their sustenance"

"It seemed that something else is amiss", Falric wondered to his fellow commander.

"Some of the townsfolk are stubborn, refusing to leave their homes," Marwyn continued, sounding stressed and frustrated. "We've tried to convince them, but fear for their families' safety holds them back."

Arthas sighed. "We'll do what we can to ensure their safety," he stated with firm resolve. "But we cannot force them to leave if they won't. And what of the Baron Rivendare? Is he apprehended as I ordered?"

Marwyn nodded. "Yes, sire," he replied. "We acted upon the evidence and information we gathered. He is now in our custody and has been escorted to the Capital City under heavy guard. Lord Jeremiah Goodwin has taken over in his stead, ensuring that both the city and the refugees here are cared for and protected."

Arthas was slightly relieved, but he remained vigilant. "Good," he curtly said. "Have our troops remain on guard. The undead may be encroaching the city in any moment now."

Falric leaned in. "And what of his son, Aurius, sire?" he questioned. "Does the Baron's son share his father's treachery?"

"Aurius is a Paladin of the Silver Hand, through and through," Arthas interjected. "His dedication to the Light is unwavering. It's very unlikely he knew of his father's dealings with Kel'thuzad or the cult, much less participated in it."

Turning to Marwyn again, Arthas asked, "Where is Lord Goodwin at the moment?"

Marwyn glanced at the side of the city. "He's at the Baron's manor, Your Highness," he replied. "Overseeing the situation and coordinating the city guard and officials. He has been doing well enough to be chosen by Lord Uther it seems."

Arthas nodded, motioning Falric and Marwyn to follow him. The guards stationed outside snapped to attention, recognizing the prince despite. Inside, Lord Goodwin was hunched over a large table, poring over maps and parchments, his face etched with worry. He looked up as Arthas entered where he composed himself and offered a curt nod. "Your Highness," he greeted

"Lord Goodwin," Arthas greeted, looking around the room. "How fare the people of Stratholme?"

The older man sighed. "They are...resilient, but their fear grows with each passing hour," he admitted. "Many question what we are doing, comparing this to the Orc internment camps."

Arthas cupped his chin. "I could not blame them for their response in that matter." he softly said with in resignation. Better a temporary inconvenience than an eternal curse fall upon them. "Still, what were they receiving as they are held outside?"

"The supplies are holding up," Lord Goodwin assured him. "We've received shipments from other kingdoms. Meat, vegetables, fruits, and water. It's not ideal, but it will sustain them."

Arthas nodded in approval. "Good," he commended him. "Keep the morale high, and I will deal with whatever threats that may come. What of those who refused to leave their homes?"

"They are stubborn, indeed," Lord Goodwin conrirmed with a weary smile. "We've tried to persuade them, but their resolve is unshakeable. In the end, we've chosen to respect their wishes, supplying them with what we can through their windows. We can't force them out, but we won't let them starve. And we have decided to use the Baron's grain from his stockpiles in his manor to make up with what we are lacking."

Arthas' blood froze at what he just heard, inwardly wishing that he was hearing things. "What did you say you gave them?" he asked in a cold, dangerous tone.

Goodwin felt a chill running down his spine upon seeing the Prince's reaction. "The supplies that we have are already dwindling, your Highness", he replied while trying to maintain his composure. "The needs of the others outside have thinned our resources to the limit, that we have to make do with what we could deem as safe."

"You. Did. WHAT?!", he burst out and without warning, Arthas grabbed the man by his collar with shock, anger, and fear running through his veins. "Do you have any idea what you just did!?" he yelled at him.

Falric and Marwyn tensely watched the Prince's outburst, ready to move in if need be.

The old man was taken aback by the prince's sudden outburst "I-I don't understand," he stuttered, his hands coming up in a defensive gesture. "We had no choice but to use the Baron's grain. We couldn't leave them without food."

"You have no idea what you just did," Arthas accused him. "Whatever is inside of his house, is tainted."

The lord's eyes widened in horror. "But we checked," he protested feebly. "They seemed fine. There were no signs of corruption."

Shaking Goodwin slightly, Arthas' voice grew louder. "Then you have unknowingly played his part." He released Goodwin with a shove, his hand clenching into a fist. "Do you know what the Baron did?" Arthas demanded. "Do you know the extent of his treachery?"

Goodwin's face paled. "No, Your Highness," he admitted with a whimper. "I know only of his arrest. I was not privy to the details of his crimes. He could not have kept any infected grain in his own household, which is why we felt that it was safe to distribute."

Arthas quickly turned to his one of his captain. "Marwyn, how many people have we evacuated from Stratholme?" he barked.

Marwyn, though taken aback by the prince's sudden fury, snapped to attention. "Approximately eighty to eighty-five percent, sire," he replied. "But the rest are those who refused to leave."

Arthas' face grew darker. "Gather the men," he ordered. "We will not let them become unwitting pawns in this game of death. Force those families out of their homes, now! We have to make sure none of them have consumed the tainted grain."

Falric and Marwyn exchanged a quick look before moving to carry out the prince's commands. Goodwin, still reeling from the revelation, found his voice. "But, Your Highness, we can't just—"

"You will do as I say," Arthas cut him off, pointing his finger at the man. "Move the civilians to the outskirts of the city, as far from here as possible," he continued. "And prepare for the worst."

Goodwin swallowed his protests and nodded. "At once," he murmured, turning to leave and organize the evacuation of the remaining population.

In a fit of anger, Arthas slammed his fist down to the table, breaking it. This was not supposed to happen,and he felt like smashing his head into a brick wall. In spite of his constant preparation and the risks he had taken, he did not wish to relive the nightmare he had caused before. Where he had to slaughter the rest in a sick twisted game like he had with Mal'Ganis.

The Dreadlord have not appeared yet, but Arthas was sure that he was laughing at this misfortune caused by human error.

He quickly left the manor. He had gone this far. The only thing he could do now, is damage control before it could spread even further.

Uther and Jaina rode into the bustling evacuation camp outside Stratholme. As they dismounted, they immediately noticed the tension in the air, the villagers' desperate faces, and the flurry of activity around them. They spotted Lord Goodwin in the distance, barking orders to his soldiers and other officials organizing their sudden move. He looked awful as if he had made a grave mistake.

"Lord Goodwin!" Uther called out.

The man turned, his shoulders slumping slightly at the sight of them. "Lord Uther," he wearily said. "Lady Proudmoore."

The Paladin approached quickly and cautiously. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

Goodwin took a deep breath. "I've...I've made an error," he confessed. "We gave the grain from Baron Rivendare's manor to the families who refused to leave. We had no reason to suspect—"

Jaina gasped. "The grain," she murmured, horrified. "You mean..."

Goodwin nodded dejectedly. "I realized it too late. Prince Arthas is with Captain Falric where they are forcing them from their homes to ensure they haven't consumed it."

Uther's gaze hardened. "What have you done?" he fearfully asked of him.

Goodwin hung his head. "I didn't know," he whispered. "We were only trying to help."

Jaina stepped forward. "Where are they now?", she demanded with urgency.

Goodwin pointed to the distant part of the city. "They're over there," he said. "But the situation is...volatile."

Without another word, Uther and Jaina set off at a run, their hearts racing with the dread of what they might find.

Arthas..., Jaina thought for her Prince. I hope we're not too late.

The sound of terrified screams grew louder as Arthas and Falric approached the house, weapons drawn. The sturdy wooden door was locked, but the cries from within were unmistakable. "Open up!" Arthas called out as he banged the door. "You have to come with us!"

The only response was the sound of shuffling and panic from the other side of the door. Time was running out, and he had to act now.

With a heavy heart, Arthas raised Light's Vengeance and brought it down upon the sturdy wooden door with a resounding crack, the force of his blow sending splinters flying as it gave way. Falric and the soldiers followed closely behind, their eyes wide at the scene that unfolded before them. Inside, the once-peaceful abode had become a macabre tableau of horror.

The husband, his eyes glazed with a malevolent light, was crouched over the body of the old man who is likely the grandfather, whose lifeless form lay on the floor, a gaping wound in his throat. His teeth were stained crimson, and his movements were jerky and unnatural. The man's wife and daughter cowered in a corner, their screams muffled by the gore that surrounded them. A couple of footmen with them even vomited at the grotesque sight, and Arthas gritted his teeth.

"Falric," he whispered, "Get them out of here." He didn't need to specify who he meant—his friend knew all too well.

Falric nodded grimly, and he and his men rushed to the terrified women, trying to usher them out of the house as gently as possible. The wife stumbled, her legs trembling with fear, and Arthas caught her. The daughter clung to her mother, sobbing into her skirts, her eyes wide with shock.

The husband, now aware of the intrusion, turned to face them, his movements growing more erratic by the second. Arthas stepped forward, his hand tightening around Light's Vengeance . "I'm sorry," he murmured in regret, knowing that he had to relive this nightmare agajn. "I'm so sorry."

The man let out a guttural snarl and lunged towards his family, his arms outstretched in a mindless hunger for the living. Arthas had no choice but to act. With a swift, decisive swing, he brought his weapon down upon the man's head, ending his suffering and the immediate threat.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the muffled sobs of the wife and daughter. Arthas stared at the lifeless body, his thoughts racing.

"What in the name of the Light was that?" Falric gasped in horror as he stared at the lifeless body of the man who acted like a wild beast.

Marwyn's hand was over his mouth in shock and disbelief as he took in the carnage. "My prince," he whispered, "what sorcery is this?"

Arthas' gaze snapped up from the grisly scene, meeting Falric's horrified stare. "That is what happens when one consumes the tainted grain," he somberly told them. "Their bodies are turned against them, and their souls bound to someone else." He stepped over the lifeless corpse and approached the trembling wife and daughter, inspecting for any signs of infection.

Arthas quickly knelt before the trembling wife and daughter. "Did any of you consume the grain?" he asked urgently, his voice taut with tension.

The wife looked at him with tear-filled eyes, her voice shaking as she replied, "No, Your Highness. We had not eaten it ourselves. It was only my husband who took a bite of the bread we made from it, and then he..." she trailed off, her gaze falling to the lifeless form of her husband on the floor and her deceased father-in-law.

The daughter fearfully clutched her mother's hand. "We were afraid," she whispered. "He started to change, and we didn't know what was happening."

Arthas nodded gravely. "You did well to stay safe," he assured them, his tone gentle despite the horror. He turned to a nearby footman. "Escort them out of the city," he ordered. "Make sure they are well-guarded and taken under Lord Goodwin's watch. They are not to be left unsupervised."

The footman nodded and stepped forward, taking the mother's elbow to help her stand. Falric couldn't hold back his thoughts. "But what of the others?" he choked out. "How many more could be in their homes, transforming into...that?"

Arthas stood up. "We have to find them," he declared to his men. "Now."

"HELP! SOMEONE HELP!", they heard a child's cry outside and they immediately took off. The cries grew louder as they approached the next house, his tiny form a blur of desperation as he sprinted into the night, the unmistakable sounds of shuffling and gnashing of teeth following close behind. Arthas, Falric, and Marwyn exchanged grim glances before charging ahead. As they reached the open doorway, the heart-wrenching scene unfolded before them. The boy stumbled and fell, his father and two older brothers advancing on him with the same terrifying ferocity they had just witnessed.

Reluctantly, Arthas shouted, "Don't let them get any closer!". Falric and Marwyn, though their hearts were heavy with the thought of striking down their own kin, knew they had to protect the living. Falric stepped forward with his sword and brought it down swiftly, ending the father's undying pursuit.

Marwyn, his face a mask of anguish, turned to the brothers. "Do it," he said hoarsely, unable to watch the prince face this horror alone. Falric nodded very reluctantly, and together they dispatched the two young men.

The boy looked up at Arthas. "M-my family," he stuttered in fear. "What's happening to them?"

Arthas's own eyes filled with tears, his heart breaking at the innocent question. "It's...it's a curse," he managed to say. He scooped the child up, holding him tightly. "You're safe now."

Falric stepped closer. "We have to find the others, Your Highness," he urged. "We must save as many as we can."

The prince nodded. "Yes," he agreed, his voice strained. With a heavy heart, Arthas handed the trembling boy to a nearby guard. "Take him to Lord Goodwin, he would be safe there."

He was desperately praying that no more lives would be unfortunate enough to consume the infected grain.

Uther and Jaina arrived, panting and out of breath, looking at the grim scene before them. The sounds of battle had ceased, and in its place was the mournful wail of the widowed wife and her child. Jaina kept looking at Arthas, finding him standing looking exhausted, anguished and sorrowful amidst the carnage.

"Arthas, what has happened here?" Uther demanded, looking at the lifeless bodies of the once-human townsfolk.

The prince's gaze flicked to the paladin. "The grain," he fearfully said. "Many had taken them... this...this..."

Jaina's hand flew to her chest. "You mean to say...that these people have become like Kel'Thuzad's minions?" she asked in a shaky tone

Arthas weakly nodded. "Worse, perhaps," he murmured. "They are mindless, driven by hunger and the will of their new masters. We...we have to stop them..."

The revelation hit Uther like a hammer to the chest. "What of the others?" he dreadfully asked.

"We are doing all we can," Falric interjected with the same sorrow as Aethas. "We have to find those are not yet infected, and...and deal with those who have."

Jaina's gaze fell to the ground. "This is terrible...," she whispered in a trembling tone. "How...how could happen?

Marwyn, stepped forward, but the hand that held his bloodied sword was trembling. "We cannot allow pity to cloud our judgment, Lady Proudmoore" he said firmly, but it was clear that he was in denial as they are. "We must protect the innocent, even if it means..." he trailed off as he was unable to voice the unthinkable.

The Prince turned to Uther, gripping his arm and pleading with him. "Uther, I know what I would ask would mean violating everything that the Silver Hand stood for, but you have to help in letting the others escape, even if it meant..."

"Arthas...", Uther interrupted him, unsure on what to say. "There could be another way..."

He was not letting the Paladin talk to him like that as it happened before. Not when he needed Uther's help the most in this critical moment. "I know you won't do it, Uther, and you know that as the Silver Hand's leader. But we are talking about those who still live among us and their safety."

Arthas had to choose his words carefully. He wasn't ordering Uther to purge the city like a madman. But he was ordering him to fulfill his duty to save those who remained. "You can follow your creed and let the others suffer for it, or stand with us and help them live to see another day. Your choice."

Uther was at a crossroads. His pupil had made a point. But...he swore an oath not to harm Lordaeron's people by any means.

"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!", The panic-stricken father's cries grew more desperate as he stumbled into their midst, his two-year-old daughter clutched tightly in his arms. The little girl's eyes were wide with terror, her tiny frame shaking with sobs. "Help us, Lord Uther!" he screamed at Uther. "My wife—she's gone mad! She ate the bread and now she's after us!"

Uther's heart wrenched at the sight of the terrified child, looking at Arthas for guidance. Arthas' own gaze was a storm of turmoil. Falric and Marwyn tensed, their weapons at the ready, as the wife's inhuman growls grew louder.

The father's eyes darted to his pursuer. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking, "save us from this curse!"

Before any of them could react, the wife burst into the street, her eyes burning with the same malevolent light that had claimed the others. Her movements were jerking and erratic, her face a twisted mockery of the loving wife and mother she once was. She lunged at her husband and daughter, who were behind Uther.

Uther's heart was torn between the sacred oath to protect the innocent and the grim necessity of preventing the spread of the undying plague. He took a step forward, in complete regret.

"I am sorry," he murmured in sorrow. "Forgive me for what I must do." His voice grew stronger as he raised his weapon.

The husband watched in horror as Uther's hammer arced through the air, the gleaming silver a stark contrast against the blackness of the night. The blow landed with a sickening crunch, sending the woman's body flying backward to land with a thud in the dirt. Her eyes, once filled with the cold light of the Scourge, now stared lifelessly at the stars above.

Uther's eyes squeezed shut, as if trying to banish the image of the lifeless woman from his mind. His heart felt as if it were being squeezed in a vice, but he had to protect who remained.

It was then that they heard the distant cries of panic, echoing through the eerily still streets. The sound grew louder, and soon they saw the silhouettes of several terrified civilians sprinting towards them, their faces etched with horror and fear. "More of them," Falric murmured in disbelief.

As the group grew closer, the grim reality became clear: the fleeing townsfolk were being pursued by a horde of the undead—men, women, and even children.

"Hold the line," Arthas ordered amidst the pain within. "Get the uninfected to safety!" Falric and Marwyn didn't hesitate as they rallied the remaining villagers. Jaina, however, remained rooted to the spot, her eyes reflecting the turmoil in her soul as she watched the approaching horde.

"Arthas, this is madness," she protested. "These are people—they were our kin!"

The prince looked at her, his own regret and pain invisible for her. "I know," he assured her. "But...what choice do we have, Jaina?"

"But we can't just...," the sorceress paused, unable to finish her sentence. "There has to be another way!"

"There isn't," Arthas replied in a defeated and desperate fone. "If there was another solution, I would glady take that other than this." He paused. "But...there isn't. We do this for those we can still save."

Jaina stared at him, torn in what to do. Arthas could see the doubt in her eyes, the struggle between her compassion and the cold reality before them. He knew that look all too well, since he had worn it himself countless times in his own journey before.

In all in his heart, he did not wish Jaina to be involved here to begin with. But she had been grasped by unfortunate timing. "It's them or those who remain untainted," he told her gently. "Not just for Stratholme, but for Lordaeron and to everyone else."

Uther took a deep breath. "He...he is right Jaina," he reluctantly admitted. "We have to respond, though it goes against every fiber of our being. For those who we could still save."

"There must be another way," she feebly whispered, even though she knew that she could think of anything else. "We cannot just...exterminate them all."

Arthas looked at hef. "Believe me, Jaina," he painfully told her, "If there was something. Anything to bring them back the way they were, I'd take it no questions asked. For every soul we save now, we prevent a thousand more from falling."

Jaina's resolve wavered. She knew Arthas was right, but the thought of slaughtering their own people was something she couldn't take.

The infected horde charged ahead. Arthas, Uther, Falric, and Marwyn stood firm with their men. Falric raised his weapon to rally his men. "Hold fast! They're coming!"

Arthas looked the horde for any sign of the people who had been lost to the infection. With a silent apology to his fallen people, he gripped the handle of his war hammer, deciding to do what needs to be done.

Jaina raised her staff. It began to dance with arcane power, casting a series of fireballs that streaked through the night, each one impacting with a deafening roar, engulfing the charging undead in fiery embraces.

Her elementals, summoned forth from the very fabric of water, surged to life, their liquid forms solidifying into towering beings of ice and fury. They marched alongside the knogjts, their icy breaths freezing the ground beneath them. The water elementals crashed into the horde, shattering the undead like brittle porcelain as they sought to protect the living from the relentless tide of death.

It was a messy affair that came after. Each swing of Arthas' hammer brought down another of the cursed, their unholy shrieks echoing through the streets of Stratholme. Uther's hammer, a symbol of purity and hope, cracked the skulls of the undead with a resounding finality, sending their lifeless forms crumbling to dust. Falric and Marwyn fought with the ferocity of men who knew the fate of their homeland rested upon their actions, their swords flashing through the night like the light of distant stars.

Arthas could see the fear in the eyes of the fleeing townsfolk. He swung his hammer with a fury born of desperation, each blow a silent scream against the fate that had been dealt to them.

When the last of the undead lay motionless, the once-lively streets of Stratholme were left stained with the crimson of blood. Jaina stood amidst the carnage, her hands trembling as the last of her fiery spells dissipated. She couldn't hold back the tears that streamed down her cheeks. These were people they had been unable to save, people whose lives had been snuffed out by the very hands that were meant to protect them.

"It's not your fault," she whispered hoarsely to herself. "We did what we had to."

Arthas approached her, bearing the same regret and pain as hers. "No, Jaina," he said firmly. "This is my fault. I should have seen this coming. I should have done more."

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as she sobbed into his chest. Despite his own anguish, he offered what little comfort he could, his heart aching for her grief. "You did everything you could," she protested weakly. "We all did."

He nodded solemnly, his hand stroking her hair gently. "Yes...we all did."

The coldness of the night suddenly intensified as a new presence invaded the air around them. Jaina shivered, not from the chill but from the malicious aura that seeped into her very bones. Arthas' arms fell from her shoulders as he too felt the disturbance. He turned his gaze to the horizon, his eyes narrowing in recognition and anger. He knew of his presence very well.

One that determined his destiny previously.

There, emerging from the shadows like a nightmare made flesh, his flaming eyes piercing through the darkness. The once-human Necromancers and grotesque Ghouls that accompanied him only served to amplify the horror of his presence. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp around him, a testament to the power he wielded. "I've been waiting for you, young prince", the Dreadlord stated. "I am Mal'Ganis."

Uther took a step closer to Arthas. "Is this the Dreadlord you spoke of?" he inquired.

Arthas nodded, looking angered at his presence. "It is," he confirmed.

Mal'Ganis' voice was like the hiss of a serpent, each word dripping with malice as he spoke. "Your performance at Andorhal was... noteworthy," he began. "And your capture of Kel'Thuzad was quite the achievement. It seems you have made a name for your self, young Prince."

The prince's grip on his war hammer tightened. "What do you want?" he growled.

The Dreadlord stared at him. "To serve the will of my Master." he said. "But your... interference here in Stratholme has been quite the nuisance. The Scourge has a purpose to fulfill. Whatever we have planned, does not end here."

Arthas gripped Light's Vengeance. "And I'm ending it now!", he shouted, before he leapt at the Dreadlord.

Jaina called out. "Arthas, wait!"

Mal'Ganis' eyes widened in genuine surprise as Arthas soared through the air, his war hammer cleaving through the unholy minions that sought to stand between him and the Dreadlord. The Ghouls and Necromancers fell like wheat before the scythe of the harvester, their twisted forms no match for the prince's blazing fury. The ground trembled with each crushing blow, the very air crackling with the power of the Light that Arthas had harnessed.

When the prince's hammer swung towards him, Mal'Ganis raised a hand, imbuing it with Fel energy to defend himself. The impact of the hammer against his palm sent a shockwave rippling through the air, the two forces clashing in a spectacle that could only be described as divine.

The Dreadlord was sent skidding backward, his huge frame momentarily off-balance. "Perhaps the Dark Lord did not exaggerate your prowess, young prince," he mused

"You have grown indeed."

Jaina and Uther watched the unfolding scene with a blend of awe and trepidation, their eyes wide at the unspoken history between the two combatants. Jaina took a step forward, her hand reaching out as if to protest, but her words remained lodged in her throat.

Arthas landed gracefully. "Your master will not find the same amusement," he shot back. He knew this very well. "We're going to finish this right now, Mal'Ganis. Just you and me."

Mal'Ganis only stared at him with indifference. "Your journey has only just begun. If you truly wish to destroy me, then head north. That is where our true battle shall unfold. Until then, I shall enjoy watching you dance to the tune of the master's will."

With a flick of his wrist, he sent a wave of Fel energy at Arthas, forcing him to stumble backward. The Dreadlord began to fade away, his form becoming one with the very darkness he had spawned from. "Farewell, my prince," he taunted.

Arthas's hand tightened around the grip of his hammer, his eyes narrowed into slits of pure hatred. He wanted nothing more than to lunge at the retreating figure and bring the full brunt of his wrath down upon it, to end this tormentor of his world. But he had to remain calm. Mal'Ganis wanted him to follow him to Northrend, as it was the same tactic that led him to the Lich King's grasp.

Which would then lead him to the next name of his list despite his failure to dispatch the Dreadlord here: Frostmourne.

Uther and Jaina rushed to Arthas' side as the shadow of Mal'Ganis dissipated into the night. "Are you alright, my prince?" Uther inquired in worry.

Arthas took a deep breath. "I am," he assured, his voice a little shakier than he would have. "But there is no telling when he will come back."

"Who...who is this 'Dark Lord' he spoke of?" Jaina asked, wondering what history did Arthas have with him.

The prince paused. Obviously he was not going to tell them of Ner'Zhul, at least not yet until they could figure out the information themselves first. "He speaks in riddles," Arthas lied. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"Should we pursue him?" Falric asked.

"Not yet, Falric," Arthas said in reply. He turned to Captain Marwyn, his gaze intense. "What of the civilians?"

Marwyn looked downcast when he gave his report, "Most of them have been accounted for, my prince. Lord Goodwin saw to it that they were safely escorted to the keep during the chaos."

"And those who were infected?" Arthas asked, referring to the villagers who had succumbed to the tainted grain.

Marwyn's report brought a heavy silence upon the group. "Ten percent out of the fifteen of those remaining have fallen to the plague," he revealed. "But without the measures you have installed prior to this, the result might have been even more catastrophic, my Prince"

The only thing that comforted Arthas is that it did not result into a general culling that he had ordered in his previous life. But even still, it was still a disheartening experience, knowing he could not save them all.

Arthas surveyed the area of destruction that was once the vibrant heart of Stratholme. He had seen too much death, too much suffering. He just wanted to save them all, but he knew that he could not. ".. I never wanted any of this.", Arthas sorrowfully whispered

Uther stepped forward, his own expression bearing compassion and understanding. He placed a firm hand on Arthas' shoulder. "Every life taken here was a sacrifice to save two in the lands beyond," he offered. "You did what you had to, lad. It was the least we could have asked for."

"What now, Prince Arthas?", Falric asked.

Arthas took a moment to collect his thought. But there was still much to do, and two names of the list he had made remained. "We head to Northrend."

Jaina was taken back at that. "After the Dreadlord?" she questioned. "But he said he would be expecting us. So it may be a trap"

Arthas knew he had to make up some excuse so that Uther wouldn't feel the need to convince his father to recall his ships again. Fortunately, he had the alibi for it.

"We have received a plea for help," he revealdd. "A survivor from a dwarven expedition, led by Muradin Bronzebeard, reported that they are under siege by the undead. They call for reinforcements and rescue."

It was a sound reasoning. Because if asked to pick a story between that and Frostmourne, he would pick the more believable alternative. Although his objective now is to destroy that damned blade..

"Are you certain this is not the same game the Dreadlord played?" Uther carefully asked. "Luring us into a trap to weaken our forces?"

"I cannot ignore the call of an old friend in need," Arthas firmly replied. "We do not want King Magni to worry as to what had happened to his brother."

Jaina looked at the two men. "But what of the Dreadlord?" she pressed.

"Don't worry, lass," Uther assured her, his hand still on Arthas' shoulder. "The Dreadlord's time will come. For now, we must ensure that the living do not suffer at the hands of the Scourge. Our priority is to save those who still have a chance."

Arthas looked at Uther. "I need you to stay here, my friend," he requested. "Look after the people of Stratholme. Ensure they reach the Capital City safely."

Uther knew Arthas was hiding something, something that weighed heavily on his conscience. "You can't face this alone, Arthas," he said to him. "If you need additional assistance, the Silver Hand will provide."

But the Prince wasn't budging. "You are needed here," Arthas replied. "Jaina will remain to assist you. You two can keep the people safe and rally the remaining troops against any forces belonging to the undead lurking around the Kingdom."

Jaina stepped forward. "But what about you?" she asked in worry. "So you're still heading to Northrend? Alone?"

The prince's look softened. "Yes", he replied. "To save my old friend and to make sure Mal'Ganis never threatened these lands again.", he looked away.

Uther observed him a bit more. "What are you not telling us, Arthas?" he decided to ask.

The prince looked at the two. "Only that is to make sure both of you remained safe and sound," he replied. "This is something that I feel the need to do myself. And I only ask that you trust me in this."

As Arthas strode away, Uther's gaze followed him followed him a bit. Jaina's voice broke the silence. "Uther, he's endangering himself for what he knew," she confessed.

Uther turned to face her. "I know," he confirmed. "I share your concern and his journey to the north might bring light to what he chose to keep from others"

"What is it?" she pressed. "What do you know?"

Uther solemnly looked at her. "Only what he chooses to reveal," he replied. "But I suspect it's tied to the very essence of the Scourge itself." He paused. "But now is not the time for conjectures. Someone has to watch over him."

"But what if his judgment is clouded?" she countered with urgency. "What if he's walking into a trap? And the way Mal'Ganis spoke of a Dark Lord about his potential...it is disturbing to the core."

"Then we guide him back before he is completely lost." He looked at her intently. "I am giving you permission to accompany him in his journey. But be careful. If there's any truth to Mal'Ganis's words, we cannot afford to let our guard down."

Jaina nodded with determination. "I will," she promised. "I won't let him face this alone."

Uther's hand squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Very well," he told her. "But tread lightly. We can never know what we are about to face."

I figured I need to place Jaina and Uther in a situation where they did aid Arthas, but very reluctantly and have to face their own moral dilemmas. Given his behaviour in his previous life, his orders just speak absolute insanity from their perspective. And Arthas chose for a more practical and less radical approach in helping him deal with the plague. Like appealing with them of the situation at hand and not ordering them like a tyrant.

Edited: March 4, 2025

Chapter Text

l

As Arthas moved among the survivors huddled outside the camp, the Princecouldn't help but feel a deep ache in his chest. The sight of their fearful faces and haunted eyes was a reminder of what just happened here. Despite his work to prevent a repeat of Startholme, Mal'Ganis and the Scourge still managed to strike, albeit with luck on their side, but with significantly less casualties. He knelt beside an elderly woman, her eyes vacant and her skin pale with the grip of fear. "You're safe now," he assured her, trying to sound gentle. "We'll make sure no harm comes to you."

"But what if they came back, your Highness?", she fearfully asked, only for Arthas to shook his head.

"They won't", he assured her. "You have my word. And the guard will remain until the situation is resolved completely."

Her trembling hand reached out to him Arthas's eyes met hers, and he saw the reflection of his own sorrow mirrored there. "I shall not fail you again," he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Falric approached, his own gaze taking in the scene with a heavy heart. "Prince Arthas," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "The ships are prepared to sail. We only await your orders."

Arthas stood, his eyes never leaving the woman's. "We leave at first light," he said firmly. "We cannot allow Mal'Ganis to think he's won, and to rescue Muradin and his men from terrible conditions." He glanced back at the city. "This is not the end of Stratholme's suffering, but it will be the beginning of its rebirth."

The woman looked up at him, her eyes slowly filling with hope. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice a mere breath.

Arthas nodded solemnly before turning to face Falric. "Let us pray that in Northrend, we find the means to end this curse," he said, the weight of his words heavy on the air. "So that in time, no one else has to face the same plight as we are."

As Falric strode away to carry out his orders, Arthas couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that came upon him. The mention of Northrend and the Dreadlord had stirred up memories that he would most prefer to be forgotten, but knew very well that he couldn't until he could be sure it won't happen again.

Suddenly, he gazed upon a familiar raven. Immediately, he knew he had to speak to him once more when he watched the raven fly into the night, its wings beating a silent tattoo against the dark sky, and made up his mind. He had to find out more.

Turning to Captain Marwyn, he issued his next command, "Ensure that the troops are ready to depart at dawn. We must not delay."

Marwyn nodded sharply, understanding the urgency in his prince's tone. "At once, Your Highness."

With that, Arthas set off in pursuit of the raven. The creature led him away from the camp near the docks and deeper into the forest, its path weaving through the dense foliage with an eerie grace. The moon cast long shadows on the ground, and the whispers of the trees seemed to hold secrets of their own.

Finally, the raven alighted on the ground, its eyes gleaming in the moonlight as it turned to face him. Arthas stopped, his breath misting in the cold air. "You have came here for a reason," he called out, his voice echoing through the night. "What more do you wish to say to me?"

The raven cocked its head to the side, studying him intently, before its form shifted, morphing back into that of the ancient, robed figure from their earlier encounter. The Prophet's eyes bore into Arthas, who felt tense at his presence.

The robed man took a few steps forward as he nodded solemnly at Arthas' words. "Your dedication to your people's survival does not go unnoticed," he said. "Instead of the pursuit of vengeance, you sought salvation. Not just for you, but the people as well."

Arthas felt his resolve harden. "What else do you foresee?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath them.

The Prophet's gaze grew distant, as if peering into a future that was yet to unfold. "Only that he awaits your presence up north," he murmured, Arthas did not have to guess whom he was referring to when a shiver ran down his spine. "His reach is far and wide. Perhaps attaching strings to unsuspecting persons, and has reached farther than you can imagine."

Arthas' eyes narrowed in contempt. "If he is trying to look for me," he began, his jaw clenching when he remembered Kel'thuzad's words. He chose you to be his champion long before the Scourge even began. "He won't have to look far once I disappointed him."

The Prophet's gaze grew piercing as he studied the Prince. "Your awareness of this enemy...it runs deeper than the rivers of time, my prince," he whispered. "You have danced with the Lich King's shadow before, have you not?"

Arthas felt his heart stutter upon hearing his words. Could he possibly know? No, it couldn't be, he assured himself, his fears were just getting the better of him. He swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving the Prophet's. "I do not know what you mean," he said, his voice a thin veneer over the tumultuous sea of emotions that churned within him.

The Prophet's smile was small yet understanding, as if he knew all too well what Arthas kept to himself. "Your burdens are heavy, my prince," he said with understanding only put the Prince on edge. "And they may yet be your downfall if you do not learn to wield them with care."

Arthas felt his chest tighten,. "I am aware," he said, his voice gruff with unshed emotion. "My fears have already shown its costs." He paused, his eyes searching the Prophet's face. "I may even have lost the trust of those I hold dear."

The Prophet nodded, his gaze never wavering from Arthas' own. "Indeed, your fears have wrought much damage," he agreed. "But fear is not your enemy, young prince. It is what you do with that fear that will define you." He leaned heavily on his staff, the wood creaking under his weight. "You are who you choose to be, as long as you know what the path you walk."

Arthas felt the ground beneath him shift, as if the very fabric of reality was unraveling. "What are you saying?" he demanded, his voice hoarse with desperation. "What do you know about me?"

The Prophet's smile grew enigmatic. "I know what you fear, young Prince," he said, his voice a gentle caress. "But not of who you truly are." He reached out a hand, and when Arthas did not take it, the Prophet's expression grew solemn. "And of the wounds you carry."

"What are you talking about?", Arthas demanded. "What wounds do you think I have?"

The Prophet's gaze remained locked onto Arthas, a knowing look that seemed to peer into the very depths of his soul. "Old wounds never truly heal, my prince," he said softly. "They merely scar over, waiting for the slightest touch to break them open anew."

Arthas felt a twinge of discomfort at the Prophet's words, it sounded as if he knew of his plight, yet he was willing to try and help him. "I am aware of the cost of secrets," he admitted, his voice tight with the strain of keeping his true identity hidden. "The price of keeping them runs deeper than the most profound wound."

The Prophet nodded, as if he had seen others have walk this path before him. "Yet, some scars can only be mended when others lend their light to your darkness," he offered. "You know this as well, young Prince. In time, you will be made to allow others to help you heal."

Arthas took a step back, his eyes searching the Prophet's face, looking for any sign that he knew the truth. "My trust is not easily given," he said, his voice low and cautious. "But I understand your counsel."

The Prophet nodded. "I am aware of your intentions," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "But remember, young prince, some fates are intertwined beyond our knowing." He paused, his gaze seeming to peer through the veil of the present and into the murky waters of the future. "When you reach the west, you will find that the battle for this world's soul is not confined to the lands of the living."

Arthas felt the weight of the Prophet's words, the implication of his past hanging heavily in the air. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice tight with the effort of holding back his secrets.

The Prophet leaned heavily on his staff, his eyes glowing with an eerie light. "You have seen his visage," he said, his tone low and measured. "And in doing so, you have glimpsed the fate that awaits you should you stray from the path of light."

Arthas swallowed hard. "I'll do what I can ," he vowed, his voice a mix of defiance and fear.

The Prophet's expression softened, as if seeing through lies and doubt that Arthas had made around his heart. "Some destinies are written in the stars, my prince," he murmured. "And some are forged in the fires of our own making."

With a grace that seemed almost unnatural, the Prophet transformed back into the raven, its eyes gleaming with the wisdom of ages. The bird took to the air as he prince watched it fly away, the whisper of its feathers against the night sky echoing the whispers of his own tumultuous thoughts.

The Prophet's departure left Arthas feeling both relieved and troubled. The knowledge that someone might know his darkest secret was unsettling, but the Prophet did not say anything explicit of it, yet he still made an effort to guide him. I should prepare for an expedition to Kalimdor..., Arthas thought. But then until the Scourge is dealt with, and other factors secured, there might not even be a need to do so.

Breathing out heavily. He spoke aloud, "I know that you're here, Jaina", he called out. "There's no reason for you to hide"

Her invisibilty had been dispelled and emerged from her hiding spot as she approached him. She studied him, her eyes searching his for any clue to the tumultuous thoughts that lay beneath his stoic facade. "What was it that he spoke of, Arthas?" she asked, her voice tentative, but it was something that she was immediately worried about. "I heard mention of old wounds and destinies. What could that mean?"

Arthas turned to face her, appearing calm and uncaring for what was said to him. "He speaks in riddles, Jaina," he simply said. "The ravings of a madman, or perhaps a prophet who sees too much and understands too little."

Jaina frowned. She knew that the Prophet was no madman, his words had been too precise, too knowing in spite of what Antonidas and King Terenas thought of him. "But what about it?" she pressed, unable to shake off the feeling that there was more to this conversation than Arthas was letting on.

The Prince sighed, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the first light of dawn was beginning to break. "He spoke of the the north as if he were a mere obstacle to be overcome," Arthas said. "Yet it was clear he knew little of what he was speaking off."

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Jaina's voice was gentle but firm, her eyes never leaving his. "Something that you fear?"

The Prince didn't say anything, instead making his way to the harbor where the fleet to Northrend was being prepared. There was something wrong with him the moment the Prophet spoke of his fears. The same expression she had seen back at Heartglen.

Jaina followed Arthas closely, her eyes never leaving his back as the first light of dawn began to pierce the veil of night. The tension between them was palpable, a silent dance of unspoken words and unasked questions. "What did the he mean by 'old wounds' and 'destinies'?" she asked, her voice echoing with a hint of urgency. "You heard him, you can't keep doing this forever."

Arthas didn't turn around, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon as if he could will away the truth. "It was nothing, Jaina," he replied, his tone weary as he continued to walk to the docks. "Merely the musings of a man who has seen too much and has grown too fond of speaking in riddles."

The mage's frown deepened, and she quickened her pace to walk alongside him. "You know as well as I do that his words are not to be dismissed so easily," she insisted, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. "What is it that you fear?"

Arthas did not say anything in reply and continued walking. Jaina was convinced that it had to do with him from what he felt and what was hurting him from the inside. The silence grew heavier with each step, the crunch of leaves and the distant sounds of the camp preparing to break the only noises to interrupt the tension between them. Jaina's hand fell away from his arm, and she watched him for a moment, her eyes searching his profile for any clue as to what was truly troubling him. Finally, she spoke up again, her voice tight with worry. "Arthas," she implored. "You know you can tell me what was troubling you. But I have to know why you couldn't."

He stopped then, his shoulders tense and his back to her. The silence stretched taut, the air thick with the unspoken words that hung between them. "You wouldn't understand," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to carry the weight of his burden. "What I've seen...what I've become."

Jaina stepped closer, her hand reaching out tentatively to rest on his shoulder. "I've seen enough from what we've been through ," she said, her voice a soft counterpoint to his anguish. "And I will if you're willing to tell me."

Arthas let out a bitter laugh, his head shaking slightly. "You think you know me, Jaina," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You don't. You don't know what happened to me, and what I've done."

Her grip tightened on his shoulder, her voice firm. "I know you're hurting, Arthas. And that's enough for me."

He turned to face her then, his eyes haunted by shadows she had never seen before. "You can't help me," he said, his voice heavy with pain. "No one can."

Her eyes searched his, the unspoken question clear. "Is it about Mal'Ganis?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Is it...is it because of what happened at Stratholme?"

The mention of the city brought a fresh wave of agony to Arthas's face, and he took a step back, his eyes flitting away from hers. "It's more than that," he said, his voice strained.

Jaina's eyes searched Arthas's face, the unspoken question burning in her gaze. "Is it about your father? Uther? Or even me?" she asked, her voice trembling with the weight of her concern. "Or is it something else, something that happened...after?"

The prince took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes flicking to hers briefly before looking away again. "Jaina," he began, his voice tight with emotion. "I will always be grateful for your help. But this is something that you can't do anything about."

Her hand slipped from his shoulder, and she took a step back, her eyes reflecting the hurt she felt at his evasion. "Everyone was becoming worried about you. Me, Uther, Falric, Marwyn...," she insisted, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her heart. "You can't keep it all to yourself."

Arthas's expression grew more closed off, his jaw clenching. "You have enough to worry about," he said, his voice firm. "Your place is with Uther and the others in Lordaeron. Or perhaps you should return to the Kirin Tor and aid in the interrogation of Kel'Thuzad. There is much to be learned from him."

Her eyes narrowed, the hurt in her voice replaced by a hint of anger. "You're asking me to leave you," she accused, her hand dropping to her side.

He turned to face her fully, his eyes cold and distant. "You have your obligations, Jaina," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "I have my own..."

Jaina's eyes widened in surprise. "Arthas," she protested, her voice filled with concern and confusion. "Uther has asked me to accompany you to the north. I'm not letting you do this alone."

He turned to her, his gaze steely. "You have your place in this war, Jaina," he said, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. "But it is not at my side."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded, her hand rising to her chest. "Why are you keeping me away?"

Arthas took a moment to gather his thoughts, his eyes searching hers for understanding that she could not yet grasp. "Jaina," he began, his voice strained. "I..."

Her eyes searched his, the unspoken words hanging in the air between them. "Is it because of the Dreadlord?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "You fear for my safety? Or do you think I'm a burden because your pride was at stake?"

The Prince's jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. "Tell Uther," he said, his voice low and firm, "that as his future king, I am ordering him to rescind this request. Our concerns lay elsewhere."

Jaina stepped back, the impact of his words like a physical blow. "You don't trust me," she whispered, the accusation cutting through the early morning air like a knife. "You don't trust me to handle whatever lies ahead."

Arthas took a step closer, his hand reaching out to her, but she stepped away, out of his reach. "It's not about trust, Jaina," he said, his voice raw with pain. "It's..."

The silence between them stretched taut as a bowstring, the unspoken words hanging in the air like the scent of a storm before it breaks. Jaina's eyes searched Arthas's, looking for any crack in the cold mask he had donned. But his gaze was unyielding, a wall of ice that she could not penetrate. "Jaina," he began, his voice strained, "For what is worth...you have to trust-." He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to her, but she flinched away as if burned by his touch.

"Trust you?" she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. "How can I trust you when you won't even confide in me or to anyone?" Her eyes searched his, looking for the warmth that had once been so familiar. "What happened to you, Arthas? What did you see to make you act like this?"

The mention of Stratholme sent a tremor through the Prince's body, his hand dropping to his side as if the mere memory of the city had robbed him of his strength. "It's nothing you need to know," he said, his voice a low rumble. "And I'm sorry."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away from her, leaving Jaina staring after him in shock. As she took a step to follow, two of Arthas's Royal Guards stepped into her path, their expressions apologetic yet firm. "The prince has ordered us not to allow you entry," one of them said, his voice heavy with regret. "You must remain here from the time being at the meantime."

Jaina felt as if she had been slapped, the wind knocked out of her. "What?" she gasped, her hand rising to her chest. "...why?"

The guards exchanged a quick look, but said nothing more, their silence speaking volumes. Jaina's eyes filled with tears, a mix of anger and hurt boiling within her.

Arthas did not turn back to face her, his footsteps fading into the distance as he walked away from her. Jaina stood there for a long moment, the early morning light casting a cold glow on her tear-stained cheeks. Finally, she took a deep, shuddering breath and turned back.

What happened to you, Arthas?

In the cramped confines of his cabin, Arthas slammed the door shut behind him. He sank down onto the hard wooden bench that served as his bed, his armored shoulders slumping with the weight of his guilt. The candle on the nearby table cast flickering shadows across his face, emphasizing the pain etched into his features as he buried his face in his hands.

"I've made a terrible mistake," he murmured to the empty space, with the tears he refused to shed. "By pushing you away, I've only hurt your more." The words hung in the air, echoing off the walls like the clanging of a funeral bell.

He knew that Jaina had noticed his distance, his reluctance to confide in her, but he had hoped that his stoic mask would be enough. That she would not press further. But she had, with a tenacity that only served to highlight the depth of her care for him, that she always had. And the love they had with one another. And now, he had hurt her, perhaps irrevocably.

"Jaina..." He breathed her name, feeling the warmth of her touch slipping away from him. He had felt it in the way she had flinched from his outstretched hand, the way her eyes had searched his, looking for the truth he kept hidden.

"I have been a fool," he said, his voice barely audible. "I've lost everything once. I can't bear to lose you too." The words were torn from him, a silent confession of the fear that had driven him to keep his darkest secrets buried deep within.

As dawn broke over, Arthas remained in his cabin, lost in a tumult of self-loathing. He knew that keeping Jaina at arm's length was for her own protection. Because any confrontation with her and Mal'Ganis would mean death to one of them, which certainly be the sorceress. But the cost of his secrecy was a gnawing ache already. He had pushed away the one person who had ever truly understood him, the one person who had never judged him for his past mistakes.

But if she knows now, then she'd be among them. Those who hated him. Feared him. And fought him.

"What am I doing?" he murmured to the empty room, his voice heavy with regret. "I'm losing her. I'm losing all of them." He pounded his fist against the wooden bench, the pain in his knuckles a pale reflection of the pain in his heart.

In his mind's eye, he saw her standing before him, hurt and confused. He heard the tremor in her voice as she spoke of trust and understanding. And he knew that he was turning away her, that the very thing he feared most—being alone—was happening because of his own actions.

"I can't tell her," he whispered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Because if I did..."

He had made his choice to keep her safe, to not burden her with the knowledge of his fate. Yet, as he sat there, he couldn't help but wonder if that choice was a mistake. If, by trying to save her and his comrades, he had only succeeded in damning them both."

The silence grew heavy, to the point it was suffocating him. The future he had made and ushered was a nightmare made real, and he feared that no matter what path he chose, it would only lead to more pain and heartache. But one thing was clear: he could not go on like this.

To bring her into the path that led to that nightmare, to risk her life for his own salvation, was a price too high to pay. Yet, as he thought of her standing there, the pain in her eyes as he ordered her to stay behind, he knew he had inflicted a different kind of pain upon her—the pain of rejection and confusion.

He clenched his fists, his knuckles white with the effort of restraint. "I have to do it..." he whispered, the words a feeble defense against the accusations of his own heart. "To make sure you're safe from whatever that awaited me." But the echo of his voice only served to amplify the doubt. Was he truly protecting her, or was he just too afraid to face his own demons alongside her?

With trembling hands, Arthas reached up to the chain that hung around his neck, his fingers finding the cold metal locket that rested there. He had not taken it off since she had given it to him, because that's just how much value it had for him. And even used it on occasion to visit her to Dalaran in secret. All it had were memories of two children being unaware of the world around them, and eventually, the bond that evolved from close friendship into something more prevalent and intimate.

It only caused his heart to crack even further.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes filling with unshed tears. The locket had been a part of him through every transformation—from the proud paladin to the tormented death knight, and then the Lich King. It was one of the two remnants of humanity he kept as the monster he grew to despise, a silent reminder of the love he had once known and lost.

It was something that he could not risk losing again.

Suddenly, the door to his cabin opened, causing him to focus all attention to the newcomer. Falric had checked up on him, bowing before Arthas. "Your Highness, the fleet is prepared and the supplies are sufficient. How we may proceed?"

Arthas took a deep breath. This was a pivotal chance to make things right. "We depart immediately, Falric", he firmly told him. "We have no time to waste."

Jaina's steps echoed on the wooden planks of the dock. She felt as if she had been cast aside, no longer needed by the man she had known for all her life. The Arthas who, while having impulsive tendencies and anger issues, was kind-hearted, caring, noble and fearless warrior was replaced by someone cold, haunted, perhaps even broken, a sight that became familiar since they first spoke at Heartglen.

As she passed the ships being loaded with supplies and soldiers, her heart felt heavier with each step. Her mind reeled with the images of the Dreadlord, the malicious energy that had suffused the air during their encounter, and the fear that had gripped the Prince's soul. Why was he pushing her away? Was it truly for her own safety, or was there something deeper, something that he didn't trust her to handle? Her eyes searched the horizon, blurring with tears as she whispered to herself, "What happened to you, Arthas? What made you so afraid?"

Her thoughts swirled in a tumult of anger, confusion, and pain. He had always been the strong one, the beacon of hope. But now, she feared for him. He was walking into a trap set up by the Dreadlord and his cohorts, and she had no idea how to save him from himself.

Her eyes fell upon the shimmering waters of the harbor, reflecting the light of the rising sun. It was a stark contrast to the darkness that had settled over her heart. She knew that she couldn't let Arthas face this alone, not with the shadow that hung over him. Jaina's jaw set with determination. Despite his orders, she would find a way to be there for him, to help him fight his inner demons alongside the external ones.

Taking a deep breath, she wiped her eyes and straightened her posture. Arthas may have his secrets, but she had her own resolve.

She wasn't going to let him go because of his fears.

It only served her drive to know what really tormented him.

She knew she couldn't just stand by and let him act recklessly. With a quiet determination, she approached the docks, her eyes scanning the fleet of ships that would soon set sail for Northrend.

Selecting one that seemed less guarded than the rest, she slipped away from prying eyes. The air grew colder as she approached the ship, the scent of the sea and the creak of the wooden boards beneath her feet the only sounds to break the silence.

With a whisper of arcane power, she cast the teleportation spell, her body shimmering before disappearing and reappearing within the room's cramped confines. The sudden displacement of air alerted the sailor inside, who jumped in surprise before spotting her. His eyes grew wide with recognition and fear, his hand reaching for the dagger at his side.

Jaina raised her own hand, not to attack but to reassure. "Please," she whispered urgently, covering his mouth. "I'm here under Lord Uther's orders." The sailor paused, his hand hovering over his weapon, unsure of what to do. "Your silence is all I need," she continued, her voice barely a murmur.

The sailor looked at her for a long moment, his eyes darting between hers and the pouch of coins she held out to him. He pocketed the pouch and nodded. "You have it," he promised, his voice a gruff whisper. "But what you're doing is quite the risk."

Jaina nodded solemnly. "I know," she said. "But I need to know, for all our sakes." She watched him nod and slip away, the sound of his footsteps retreating as he returned to his duties. As she was left there, she recalled how she often found herself above the decks of her father's ships back at Kul'Tiras, but never inside in the more tighter spaces.

Alone in the storage room, Jaina felt what she had been doing is insane. She knew Arthas was hiding something, something that was consuming him from within. And she was going to find out what it was, even if it meant following him into the jaws of the frozen hell that awaited them in Northrend.

As the ship lurched into motion, she sat on a crate and leaned against another, her heart pounding in her chest. She had always believed in him, had always seen the good in him, even when others had not. But now, she was beginning to wonder if whatever that haunted him had taken a piece of his soul that she would never get back. And she would make sure that she would take it back.

Chapter Text

In the grand, torch-lit hall of Lordaeron's Capital City, King Terenas sat upon his throne, surrounded by an array of concerned faces—regional commanders, knights, and advisors brought together by the ever-growing threat of the undead scourge.

Lord Alexandros Morgraine, a high ranking member of the Silver Hand, stepped forward to address the king. "Your majesty, the situation in the lands surrounding the port town of Southshore is grim. The undead grow bolder, and the plague they carry with them threatens to spread like wildfire." He paused, his gaze flicking to the map before them, where tiny flags marked the locations of know incursions. "We need additional forces to bolster our defenses, lest we lose the gateway to the Eastern Kingdoms."

The room grew quiet as the gravity of his words sank in, the rustling of parchment and the occasional cough the only sounds to break the silence. Terenas nodded solemnly, his own eyes weary with the weight of his decisions. "Your request is granted, Lord Morgraine," he said, his voice firm. "I will send what troops I can spare. We must ensure that the plague does not spread further."

As the room buzzed with the murmur of agreement, Lord Othmar Garithos strode in. "My liege," he began, his voice clipped and urgent, "I bring news from Blackwood. Reports have reached us of grain shipments arriving being infected. The blight has begun to claim our lands and threaten our very survival." His eyes scanned the room, finding each man's gaze and holding it for a moment.

The tension grew palpable as Garithos spoke, his words echoing the fear that lurked in every heart. The king's eyes narrowed as he considered the implications of such a discovery. "What have you done to contain the spread?" he asked, his voice measured.

Garithos's jaw clenched. "I have given orders to destroy any infected supplies immediately," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "The Prince's methods have proved quite effective as any one consuming them will risk giving a new member to the rotting savages."

The room remained still, the air thick with the unspoken understanding that such measures had consequences. It was then that Alexandros stepped up, his voice calm yet firm. "While the Prince's efforts in Stratholme and other afflicted areas have indeed provided us with a grim example of how to combat this scourge, General," he began, "we must also consider the potential for starvation. The destruction may be a necessary evil in the short term, but it could lead to famine and desperation in the long run."

Garithos scoffed. "I have imposed measures to conduct strict rationing of our resources, as thinned as they are. Better that we fight our enemies with half-filled bellies than let them feast upon our own."

The two men exchanged a glare. Terenas raised a hand, calling for order. "We have to balance our strategies," he bellowed. "We cannot allow the scourge to spread, but we must also ensure the survival of our people." He paused, looking to the map displayed before him.

Alexandros, his eyes never leaving the map, spoke up, his voice calm but insistent. "Your majesty, have the other Kingdoms been informed of this? Gilneas has turned inward with its King Greymane's policy of isolation, and Stromgarde is barely holding out against the relentless sieges." He took paused for a moment. "And what of Quel'thalas? Surely they must be made aware of the looming threat, lest it reach their own borders."

King Terenas nodded. "Emissaries have been dispatched to all corners of the Alliance," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of his words. "We have to least inform them in order to make sure they are aware."

Garithos, however, had no patience for such diplomacy. "The elves have made their choice," he spat, his eyes narrowing. "They turned their backs on us when we needed them most, so why not let them deal with their own fate since 'it's not our business' as they would likely say." His voice was clearly distrustful. Morgraine only sighed at his apparent disdain for the elves, though it held truth since they left the Alliance as soon as Sir Lothar was killed during the last war, except for a group of volunteers led by Alleria Windrunner.

The doors of the hall swung open, as Uther came in. His eyes searched the room until they landed on King Terenas, and he quickly made his way to the throne. "Your grace," Uther called out as he bowed before the king.

"Uther," Terenas greeted the Silver Hand's leader. "Please, tell us what has transpired in Stratholme. We await your report with bated breath."

Uther took a deep breath. "The situation was dire, my liege," he began solemnly. "Baron Rivendare and the House of Barov had indeed aligned themselves with the Cult of the Damned. Their treachery knew no bounds as they actively worked to spread the plague within the city, though their efforts to do so were mostly thwarted by Prince Arthas."

Mostly. Since a portion of the city became infected due to human error and ignorance.

The room erupted into a cacophony of gasps and murmurs of shock and anger. Terenas's hand slammed down on the armrest of his throne. "Their own people?" he roared. "What madness is this?"

Uther nodded grimly. "Indeed, it is my liege," he agreed. "But there is more. The one responsible for orchestrating the spread of the plague in the capital city has been captured."

Terenas leaned forward, his expression a mix of hope and dread. "Where is he?" he demanded. "I wish to see this monster brought to justice before the people of Lordaeron."

Uther's look became troubled. "He is...not here," he revealed. "The instigator of the plague is currently under the custody of the Kirin Tor in Dalaran."

Terenas's brows furrowed in puzzlement. "The Kirin Tor?" he repeated. "Why would they take him?"

"For interrogation," Uther explained. "They wish to uncover the full extent of the Cult's infiltration and the others who have a hand in it as well."

The king's gaze was sharp. "I understand their intent, Uther, but I would have preferred a trial held here and to hear him myself," he said, his voice tight with frustration.

Garithos stepped forward, his expression one of concern and skepticism. "Your majesty," he began, "are we certain that holding such a dangerous creature in our midst is wise? The risk of him spreading the plague again, or worse, escaping and wreaking havoc on our city is too great to ignore."

Alexandros nodded solemnly in agreement. "The general speaks sense, my liege," he said, his eyes on Uther. "We must not allow our desire for justice to cloud our judgment. The safety of the realm is paramount."

King Terenas looked from one to the other, his gaze thoughtful. "Where is Prince Arthas?" he asked, his eyes searching the room. "He was the one who discovered these traitors and spearheaded the campaigns against the undead. I would hear his thoughts on the matter."

Uther's expression grew serious. "Your highness," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "The prince is currently not in the city. He is on a mission to the north, attempting to locate and rescue Muradin Bronzebeard and his expedition, at least according to a survivor that came to him."

The dwarven ambassador present with them nodded. "Aye, 'tis true," he rumbled. "Muradin and the Explorer's Guild have ventured to those unknown lands. We have had no word from them since then."

The room grew tense. "Arthas has displayed dedication and careful thought on how to address issues that we do not normally face.", the Paladin continued. "I can assure you, your Highness, that the Prince will return with his men safe. I have also requested Lady Jaina Proudmoore to accompany him in his mission."

Terenas nodded gravely. "Very well," he said. "Proceed with caution, Uther. I trust in your judgment and that of the prince. Keep me informed of your progress. And I sincerely hope that nothing happens with Lady Proudmore. Lest we have a new dispute with Lord Admiral Daelin and Kul'Tiras."

The paladin bowed before the king. "As you command," he said before turning to leave.

As the doors closed behind Uther, Garithos could not help but voice his skepticism. "Your majesty, while I admire Prince Arthas' decisiveness, I find his sudden interest in the fate of a dwarven expedition curious," he said, eyeing the king with suspicion. "Surely there are more pressing matters for him to attend to here in Lordaeron."

King Terenas' gaze never wavered from the map before him. "The prince is a man of honor and compassion," he replied unyieldingly. "If he believes that lives can be saved, he will do so without hesitation. And if there is a chance to find the source of the blight in those lands, we will allow him to pursue it."

As the ship cut through the dark waters, Arthas approached the ship's navigator, eager for an update. "How long until we make landfall in Northrend?" he inquired.

The navigator, a dwarf named Kragg, glanced up from the chart he was holding. "If the winds hold, we'll reach the coast within a day and a half, Your Highness," he replied. "There are several settlements along the way where we can replenish supplies."

Arthas sighed. "That wouldn't be the case unfortunately," he stated. Of course, how did Mal'Ganis manage to bring in a a large amount of troops with what he had? "The Scourge has likely claimed those lands. We can't count on finding any help there."

Kragg's eyes widened in surprise. "The undead?" he murmured in disbelief. "If the settlements are overrun, what then?" he asked, his concern palpable.

"We'll make do with what we have," Arthas said firmly. "Keep me informed of our progress. Any changes in the weather or signs of trouble, no matter how small, I need to know immediately."

Kragg nodded. "Aye, Your Highness," he obliged. "I'll keep a sharp lookout."

Leaning over the ship's railing, Arthas's gaze was drawn to the horizon where the darkened sky met the churning waves of the sea. The briny scent of the ocean filled his nostrils, taking him back to a time when he had first set foot on the frozen shores of Northrend. In his mind's eye, he saw the fiery destruction of his own fleet, an desperate act to ensure that he and his men would not retreat from his obsession to kill the Dreadlord then and there.

He could vaguely recalled the moment he lost his mind when his soul was claimed by Frostmourne. The voices of his comrades, whom they could not escape him due to burning his ships and their cries for mercy and deliverance haunting him still. It was there that he had claimed the runeblade, and with it, the mantle of the Lich King's champion. The price of power was etched into his very bones, a cost he had paid in the lifeblood of his men and the sanctity of his own soul and turning them into his mindless servants.

And now, as he journeyed back to that cursed land, he could not help but wonder if he was fated to repeat the same grim cycle. But he wasn't going there in his anger nor vengeance. But from his want to change the fate that he ushered himself in his obsession to kill Mal'Ganis.

But then...he felt his fears are the one that is binding him this time. His fear of repeating everything and becoming the monster he so hated. His fear of what if Jaina or the others would know of his previous life.

"But fear is not your enemy, young prince. It is what you do with that fear that will define you.", the words from the Prophet echoed in his mind. He was right, but how could he do it without compromising too much?

Falric, who had been quietly observing the prince's contemplation from afar, took a step closer, his eyes filled with concern. "Your Highness," he said gently. "Are you alright?"

Arthas turned to face him, his gaze distant and haunted. "Yes," he said finally, his voice a low rumble. "There is much I need to confide in you, Falric."

The knight nodded solemnly. "I am here to serve, Your Highness," he replied, his expression unwavering. "What is it that troubles you?"

The Prince took a deep breath. "What is it that you fear?"

Falric's was surpised to hear that but complied. "Your Highness," he began, "My greatest fear is to watch our home crumble before my eyes. To see the lands and its people that we swore to protect fall before our very eyes."

"About your greatest fears back then. Personal ones", Arthas corrected himself. "During the days you first served the Kingdom back in the Second War."

Falric's gaze snapped back to Arthas. "When I was first conscripted to fight, Your Highness," he began. "I was no more than a teenager with a hammer and a heart full of fear despite my father wanting me to be a farmer. I had heard the horrors that the orcs had brought upon our lands during the Second War, the destruction of Stormwind during the First and the chaos that ensued. The thought of facing such monsters on the battlefield was terrifying."

He paused. "But fear is not something that can be conquered by hiding from it," he continued. "When the call came to serve Lordaeron, I knew that I had to stand and face my fears. I didn't see myself as a soldier back then. Yet, I knew that if I didn't, the same horrors might be repeated. So, I took up arms," Falric paused, his eyes now meeting Arthas's with a firm resolve. "I went to the frontlines. And it was there that I found my purpose and my call to the service of our Kingdom."

"But was there a moment that you felt like everything was hopeless or all was lost?", he asked

Falric's gaze grew distant. "The moment that truly tested my fear was during the Siege of Blackrock Spire," he began. "When we heard of Sir Lothar's death, it felt as though the very world had collapsed around us. He was not just our leader, but a symbol of hope and strength. He was the strongest warrior we knew, and if he could fall..." Falric's words trailed off, leaving the unspoken weight of his thoughts hanging in the air.

Arthas looked at him quite closely. "But you didn't give up."

The knight nodded. "No, we did not," Falric said firmly. "That was then when I truly faced my fears. When the gravity of what Sir Lothar had fought for became clear, I knew that I had to honor his sacrifice, as did many others." He paused,. "We pushed on, through the fires of Blackrock Spire. And though we were outnumbered and outmatched, we fought on until we emerged victorious, I realized that fear had not conquered me. It had made me stronger. It had forged me into the man I am today."

Falric studied Arthas with a knowing look, the silence between them growing heavier by the second. "Your Highness," he finally spoke up, "why do you ask of my fears?"

Arthas took a moment to gather his thoughts, his eyes still fixated on the horizon. "Because," he replied, his voice tight, "I too have fears that I am not sure how to conquer."

The knight was taken aback by the Prince's candid admission. Falric had always known the Prince since he was a boy, becoming an epitome of what it meant to be a paladin of the Light. "But you've faced so much already," Falric said, his voice filled with genuine astonishment. "You're one of the bravest souls I've ever had the honor of serving alongside."

The prince turned to meet his gaze, where the Captain could see how haunted his eyes are. "I fear that the very thing that made me strong is the same that could lead us to ruin," Arthas confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "My fears are... different. They are not of battles or enemies, but of the choices I am yet to make."

Falric studied Arthas for a moment thoughtfully. "Fear is a powerful force, Your Highness," he said, his voice measured and wise. "But it is not an insurmountable one. To conquer fear, one must face it directly, understand it, and then decide to act despite it."

Arthas nodded slowly, his gaze still on the horizon. "But how do you do that, Falric?" he asked, sounding burdened. "How do you face the fear that haunts you, that whispers in the dark corners of your mind?"

The knight took a deep breath, his eyes reflecting the understanding that only comes from experience. "You have to first recognize that fear is not a weakness," he explained. "It is a natural response to danger, a warning from your very soul that something is amiss."

He stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Arthas's shoulder. "But fear becomes a prison only when you let it dictate your actions. When you face your fears, you do not turn.." his voice grew softer. "It is then where you confront it directly."

The Prince's eyes searched Falric's, finding the unwavering belief the knight had in him. "But what if the fear is too great?" Arthas asked, his voice cracking slightly. "What if it turned out it is too strong?"

Falric's gaze never left him. "Then you do not face it alone," he said firmly. "You have friends, comrades, and loved ones who stand with you. They are more than enough to help you."

For a moment, Arthas felt the weight of his fears lessen, bolstered by the unwavering support of his most trusted ally. He took a deep breath, his eyes hardening with resolve. "Falric," he spoke again. "I need to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me. Have I been...unfair to the others? By keeping things from them, especially you?"

Falric's expression grew pensive as he considered the prince's question, clearing his throat. "Your Highness," Falric began, his tone measured. "You have been...cautious, certainly. And perhaps in doing so, you have kept some information from us that might have been useful."

"But," he continued, "you have also done everything in your power to protect our people and guide us through these dark times. Your tactics and foresight have saved countless lives. I may not always understand your decisions, but I trust that they are made with the purest of intentions. And in the end, isn't that what truly matters?"

The Prince thought for a moment that this was the same man whom he turned into the Scourge's second Death Knight, and how it pained him to remember that day.

Arthas felt a pang of guilt as he looked into Falric's eyes, seeing the unwavering loyalty and trust that the knight had in him. He knew that he had been holding back, keeping his comrades in the dark about the true extent of his fears and the memories that plagued him. "Why haven't you pressed me on this? Why haven't you demanded to know what it is that's been weighing on me so?"

"Because, my prince," he replied, his voice filled with the gravity of his words, "it is not my place as a soldier to demand the secrets of the man I serve. It is my duty to stand by your side, to offer counsel when it is requested."

The knight took a step back, his hand falling away. "I knew you had your reasons for being so...guarded," he continued. "And I trust that when the time is right, you will share what you need to share."

Falric searched Arthas's face, noticing the pained expression that briefly flickered across his features. "Your Highness," he ventured carefully, "does this have something to do with Lady Proudmoore?" He had noticed the tension between them, particularly at the docks before their departure from Lordaeron. The way Arthas had distanced himself from her, as if he was afraid to get too close.

Arthas's eyes grew dark with regret as he nodded. "Yes, Falric," he admitted, his voice raw with emotion. "It does." He paused, collecting his thoughts before continuing. "I have been a fool. I've pushed her away when she only wanted to help." He looked down at his hands, clenching them into fists. "I've hurt her, and I don't know how to make it right."

Falric's gaze grew serious as he spoke up. "Your Highness," he said, his voice measured. "Lady Proudmoore has confided in me, as well. And her concerns are not to be taken lightly." Arthas's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Falric's. "Back at Andorhal," the knight continued, "she spoke to me of your...distance. She is worried about you, Arthas. She feels as though you are hiding something, something that could threaten us all."

The prince's eyes searched Falric's, looking for accusation or judgment, but finding only concern. "What did she say?" Arthas asked, his voice tight.

Falric took a moment before responding, his words chosen with care. "She spoke of your mood swings, your secretive behavior, and how you've been pushing her away," he recounted. "She greatly cared for your well being, but she feels like you're erecting walls she cannot breach."

Arthas's expression grew pained. "I only did it to keep her safe," he murmured, his eyes filled with regret. "The less she knows, the better."

Falric nodded solemnly. "I understand your intentions," he said. "But secrets have a way of festering and growing in the dark. They can become the very darkness we sought to avoid."

The two men stood in silence. Finally, Falric spoke again, his tone gentle but firm. "Your Highness, I've served with you and your father for years. I've seen you face unspeakable horrors and emerge unbroken. But even the strongest of us need the light of others to find our way through the dark."

Arthas looked up at Falric, looking tormented. "Could she ever forgive me?" he whispered, the question hanging heavily between them. Falric's gaze was steady as he considered the prince's plight.

"I cannot speak for Lady Proudmoore, sire," Falric replied. "But I know this much: a healed scar is preferable to an untreated wound. If you hold your secrets too tightly, they will fester and destroy you from within." He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in.

The prince nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of Falric's advice. "But what if the truth only brings her pain?" Arthas asked, his voice a mix of hope and despair. "What if by telling her, I only cause her more suffering?"

Falric looked into Arthas' eyes, his own filled with a mix of understanding and solemnity. "If your secrets cause her pain," he said, "then it is your duty, not just as her prince, but as her friend, to help her heal from the truth."

Arthas felt a surge of emotion, his chest tightening at the thought of causing Jaina any more pain than he already had. But Falric's words resonated with him, echoing the whispers of his own conscience that had been urging him to come clean. "Falric," he said, his voice thick with gratitude, "thank you. For listening, and for understanding."

The knight nodded, his expression unwavering. "It is my duty, Your Highness," he said. "Say the word, and I shall respond accordingly."

Arthas took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his decision settling upon his shoulders. "I will consider your words," he said, his gaze shifting back to the distant horizon. "And when the time is right, I will do what must be done."

The Captain nodded, watching as Arthas retreated to his cabin. "I hope he could get through this...", he uttered for the Prince.

Falric found Marwyn perched on the stern's edge, his gaze lost in the churning sea. The knight approached, his boots thudding against the wooden planks, the rhythmic sway of the ship beneath them a gentle reminder of their journey. "Marwyn," Falric called out to his fellow captain. "What keeps you up at such an hour?"

Marwyn looked up from his contemplative stare. He held up a letter, his eyes reflecting the soft light. "A message from Lady Bloomfield," he replied..

"The botanist and flower shop owner at Stratholme?", Falric asked.

Marwyn nodded, the letter crinkling in his hand as he folded it back into his tunic. "Yes," he said, his eyes returning to the horizon. "Lady Bloomfield sent this before we set sail. She expresses her gratitude for my intervention that night."

Falric's eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. "Intervention?" he prompted, noticing the unspoken tension in the captain's words.

Marwyn sighed, leaning back against the railing. "It was a few nights ago when you were with Prince Arthas and Lady Proudmoore, I stumbled upon two envoys from the House of Barov. They had offered her a position in their household," he explained, his voice filled with the memory of the encounter. "I knew the baron's intentions were not pure, so I stepped in to make sure she does not fall to their clutches."

"Aye, I remember hearing that the Cult of the Damned were recruiting or perhaps trafficking people. And the House of Barov being in league with it", Falric recounted. "But think of it this way, I'd say that it's a blessing in disguise because who knows what they could have done with her?"

Marwyn nodded in agreement. "Aye, it's a fate I'd not wish upon any innocent soul," he murmured. He paused, then cleared his throat awkwardly. "Lady Bloomfield also mentioned that she would like to know me a little more," he said, his cheeks coloring slightly. "Once I am off duty, of course."

Falric couldn't help but smirk at the captain's sudden change of tone. "Really?" He leaned against the railing next to Marwyn. "It seems our stoic captain has a soft spot, especially when they come in the form of a flower girl."

Marwyn shot Falric a glare, his gruffness not quite hiding the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "It's not like that," he protested. "I merely did what I need to do to make sure she is safe."

"She must have seen something in you to request such gallantry," Falric teased, his voice filled with playful sarcasm. "Perhaps she's taken quite a liking to her saviour and protector of petals."

Marwyn rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him. "You jest, Falric," he said, his voice rumbling with good-natured amusement. "But I admit, she is... unique. Her spirit is as resilient as the plants she tends to."

Falric clapped Marwyn on the shoulder, his grin widening. "Well, if she's as lovely as her flowers, I can't say I blame her"

Marwyn only chuckled. "I suppose she is..."

The next morning, Navigator Kraag's call echoed through the ship. "Land ho!" he bellowed. Arthas, who had barely slept a wink, bolted upright from his chair, his heart racing.

Making his way to the upper deck, he found Kraag, his eye still pressed to the telescope, his hand steady despite the rocking of the ship. "Northrend," the navigator confirmed, a hint of awe in his voice as he lowered the instrument. "We've made good time, Your Highness."

Arthas took the telescope and peered through it, his eyes widening at the familiar terrain. It was a place of his darkest memories, a place where he had once sought power and had found only despair. But now, this was his chance to end the madness before it could even begin

"Prepare the ships for disembarkment," he ordered. "We will need to sort our supplies and make camp before we set out to rescue Muradin and his men."

And to destroy that wretched runeblade before its madness could reach anyone else.

The crew scurried to obey,. Falric approached, his eyes studying the prince's tense profile. "Is everything well, Your Highness?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

Arthas handed the telescope back to Kraag and turned to face Falric. "As well as can be," he said, his eyes distant. "We have much to do before we can rest."

Falric complied with his orders and moved to bark orders with the others.

On board the Impeccable, the sailor that Jaina had bribed the day before with a handful of coins, which was more than a month's pay for the average sailor, made his way to the storage room. As he approached the dimly lit chamber, his eyes searched for any sign of her. But she was not there. He frowned in confusion, checking his pocket watch, the gold chain jingling against the metal. It was almost time for her to rise, wasn't it? The sailor had been instructed to wake her when they arrived at Northrend's shores, so she could disembark without being seen. But it seemed she had beaten him to it.

He shrugged it off, assuming that she had already felt the ship's change in movement and had gone ahead to see the land for herself. So he went about his duties like it was another day.

On the shoreline of Northrend, Jaina had indeed risen early. Her invisibility spell cast, she watched from a safe distance as Arthas, Falric, and Marwyn conferred. The prince's gaze was focused and determined as he barked out orders, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had seen too much and had too much at stake.

Jaina's grip onto her staff was tightening. She had to find a way to get through to him, to make him realize that he could trust her with whatever it was that was tormenting him, but she had to keep quiet. And to be unseen to make this work.

"Your Highness," Marwyn began, his voice a gruff rumble. "Where should we start our search for Muradin and his men?"

Arthas took a moment to consider. "We start over there," he said, pointing at a pathway before them. "The path we took is not too far from here. But we must tread carefully; the beasts of this land are as cold and unforgiving as the land itself. They will not be hospitable to strangers."

Marwyn nodded solemnly. "Understood," he said. "We shall be prepared for whatever awaits us."

Falric stepped forward. "The encampment where he could be found could serve as a temporary shelter," he suggested. "If it's still there, it would be a strategic place to rest and reinforce before we delve deeper into the unknown."

Marwyn nodded thoughtfully. "Aye," he agreed, his gaze drifting to Arthas. "The encampment you speak of is where we should make our first stand." He paused, then spoke with a heavy heart. "But remember, Your Highness, this is the very land that demon said that you two would be fighting," he reminded him, his voice tinged with the memory of the demon's malicious laughter.

Arthas's body stiffened at the mention of the demon's name, his eyes narrowing into a cold glare. Internally, he knew that Mal'Ganis had orchestrated this, that he had led him here purposefully. But he couldn't let that distract him from his primary goal: saving Muradin and destroying Frostmourne. "We will deal with Mal'Ganis when we are ready," he said through gritted teeth. "First, we must find Muradin and ensure he is safe."

Falric nodded in understanding, his eyes reflecting the same determination. "As you wish, sire," he said. "We shall follow your lead."

The three of them stood in silence for a moment, the cold wind of Northrend whipping around them as they contemplated the dangers ahead. Arthas knew that he couldn't tell them everything, not yet. Turning to Marwyn, Arthas's expression grew grim. "Gather the men," he ordered. "We march towards the encampment. We will rest there and plan our next move."

Marwyn saluted sharply. "As you command, Your Highness," he said, and with that, he strode off to rally the troops.

Cautiously, the expeditionary force proceeded with Arthas leading the men from the front, his eyes scanning the barren landscape for any signs of danger. Falric and Marwyn flanked him, their eyes equally vigilant. Behind them, the men marched in tight formation with their supplies in tow. Jaina remained hidden, her heart racing as she watched the men she cared about from the safety of her invisibility spell. She knew that her presence could compromise the mission, but she couldn't shake off the need to to keep an eye on him

As the group progressed through the icy terrain, Jaina's eyes, sharper than any hawk's, spotted a group of shadowy figures lurking amidst the rocks ahead, revealing themselves to be Ice Trolls, their malicious intent clear as they positioned themselves to unleash a barrage of boulders upon the unsuspecting humans. Panic surged through her, but she knew she had to act swiftly. Concentrating, she whispered an incantation, her fingertips crackling with arcane energy. The air around her grew thick with anticipation as she channeled her power.

With a sudden, deafening roar, bolts of lightning shot forth from the air. The trolls, caught off guard, were bombarded by the searing arcs of electricity, their cries of shock and pain echoing through the valleys. The ground beneath them trembled as the lightning struck, and in moments, their plan was foiled, their bodies smoldering amidst the frozen landscape.

The men, startled by the sudden display of elemental fury, exchanged nervous glances, their eyes searching the skies for the source of the thunderous boom. Arthas's gaze snapped towards the horizon, his brow furrowed in concern. "We must hurry," he called out "The weather seems to be turning for the worse." Falric and Marwyn nodded, urging the men to quicken their pace, the unease in their voices barely concealed. They had encountered few natural phenomena in their journey thus far that could account for the sudden storm, and the timing was eerily convenient for an ambush.

Jaina, still shrouded in her invisibility, let out a silent sigh of relief as the men marched on, their eyes on the path ahead.

Falric cast a sideways glance at Arthas. "Your Highness, are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice low so that only Arthas could hear. "The men are already on edge. Perhaps we should find shelter and wait out the storm?"

The Prince's eyes remained focused on the path aheadn. "We don't have the luxury of time, Falric," he replied. "We have to move now." Falric nodded, though his gaze lingered on the prince.

As they approached the dwarven encampment, Arthas felt a sudden chill run down his spine, a sense of déjà vu washing over him. The camp looked deserted, the structures weather-beaten and the fires long extinguished. Falric and Marwyn exchanged wary glances, their hands hovering over the hilts of their weapons as they prepared for the worst. Arthas raised his hand, signaling the men to be on high alert.

"Quietly now," he murmured to his comrades, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of life. They moved as one, their booted feet making only the faintest crunch in the snow as they approached the abandoned camp. Suddenly, a shout rang out, and a human soldier, one of their own, was yanked into the air by an unseen net, his arms and legs flailing wildly. The prince's heart skipped a beat, and he knew that it wasn't an ambush from the Scourge but something entirely different.

Muradin and his stout dwarven riflemen emerged from their hiding spots, their rifles drawn and eyes narrowed in suspicion. The burly dwarf looked Arthas up and down, his bearded face a mask of wariness.

"Bloody hell!", Muradin exclaimed in disbelief. "You're not undead! You're all alive!"

Arthas felt a combined relief, joy and sadness upon seeing the man who taught him what he knew in fighting. "Is that you, Muradin?", he called out. "We're here to help!"

Muradin came closer to Arthas and embraced the young man. "Damn, boy. I never imagined that you'd be the one to come to our rescue!"

Arthas's heart clenched as he felt the warmth of Muradin's embrace: this was the same man that he left to die when he claimed the cursed runblade after all. He pushed the guilt aside, focusing on the present. "We are indeed," he replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Northrend is fraught with danger, and it's not just the undead we must fear," he said, his eyes scanning the horizon warily.

Muradin stepped back, clapping him on the shoulder. "Aye," he said, his voice gruff with relief. "The dea are just the tip of the iceberg in this godforsaken land. We've had our share of run-ins with the beasts that lurk 'round here."

Jaina watched from her concealed position, her eyes misting over at the sight of the two old friends reuniting. She could see the pain etched into Arthas's face, the struggle between his past and his newfound resolve. She knew that he had used the dwarf's predicament as a means to an end. But even so, he made it a priority that Muradin and his men are safe.

Muradin bellowed out orders to his dwarven riflemen, who emerged from their hidden positions around the encampment, their expressions a mix of surprise and suspicion. They eyed the human force warily, not knowing what to make of the unannounced arrival. Arthas stepped forward, his hand extended in peace. "Muradin," he said warmly. "It's been too long." The dwarf's face split into a wide grin as he took in the sight of his old friend, the human prince who had come to his aid. "You're not just a figment of me imagination, then!" he said, his gruffness belying his delight. He turned to the dwarf beside him, a robust figure with a thick red beard that matched his hair.

"This here is Baelgun Flamebeard, me second in command," Muradin announced. Baelgun offered a firm handshake to Falric, his grip as solid as the rocky landscape around them.

"The pleasure is ours," Falric said, his voice echoing the sentiment. While Arthas remained stonefaced where a few memories came back to him.

I remember you evil Prince...you're the one that killed poor Muradin!

Get over it already.

He shook his head. "But we don't have much time for pleasantries," Arthas added, his eyes darkening with urgency. "Tell me, how dire is the situation at your outpost?"

Baelgun's expression grew grim. "The undead," he spat the word with contempt, "are relentless. They come in waves from the north. We've been holding out, but our numbers are dwindling, and our supplies are low." He paused, his eyes flickering over to Arthas. "We need reinforcements if we're to break this siege and push them back."

The prince nodded gravely. "We will not leave you to face this alone," he vowed. "We will march to your aid and drive them out so you could all go home."

Muradin's eyes searched Arthas'. "What brings you to this frozen hellhole, lad?" he asked bluntly.

Arthas's gaze hardened, and for a moment. "A chance to set things right," he said, his voice tinged with both resolve and regret. "To prevent the fate that befell our lands."

Baelgun looked at Arthas with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "You're just in time, laddie," he said gruffly. "Our siege engines would be just the thing to smash through the boneyards they've built around our outpost."

Falric, who had been quietly listening to the exchange, raised an eyebrow. "Siege engines?" he repeated. "Where are they?"

Muradin's expression grew grim. "We had to leave 'em behind when we were overrun," he admitted. "They're back at our original position, but they're surrounded by the enemy now."

Arthas nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Then we'll have to retrieve retrieve them," he said, his voice firm. "They could be useful in breaking the siege."

Muradin nodded solemnly at Arthas's proposal, a glint of admiration in his gaze. "Aye, lad, that we will," he said, slapping his palm against Arthas's armored shoulder. "Those damned bone-heads don't know a thing about dwarven engineering. They'd be more likely to take their own heads off than to figure out how to operate them." He let out a hearty laugh, his boisterousness cutting through the tension.

Arthas nodded solemnly, his gaze meeting Muradin's. Of course, but we need to recover" he said, his voice firm with the authority of a leader who understood the value of strategic patience. "And I suspect your supplies have been stretched thin, given your prolonged struggle here."

Muradin's expression softened with gratitude. "Aye, we've been rationing like we're in the middle of a dragon's hoard drought," he said, his eyes lighting up slightly. "Your concern does not go unnoticed, Arthas. Your Highness's wisdom is appreciated."

Arthas returned the smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "We're all in this together," he said, his tone reassuring. "We'll take what we can from here and set out at first light. Falric, see to the men's needs. Make sure they're fed and their wounds tended to. Marwyn, coordinate with Muradin and Baelgun. We need to understand the layout of the enemy's defenses around the siege engines."

The two men saluted and moved off to carry out their orders. Arthas turned back to Muradin, his expression growing serious once more. "We'll need to move swiftly and strike hard," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Their forces are unrelenting, but we cannot let them think they have the upper hand."

Muradin nodded, his own eyes gleaming with determination. "We'll show 'em what dwarf steel is made of," he said, patting the hilt of his axe.

The campfires crackled and popped as the humans and dwarves sat huddled together, sharing their meager supplies and swapping tales of valor and hardship. The warm light cast flickering shadows on their weary faces, briefly chasing away the gloom of the surrounding wilderness. Jaina, hidden in the shadows of a nearby hill, watched the camaraderie unfold with a pang of both longing and admiration. She had not eaten since leaving the ship, her haste to follow Arthas leaving no room for provisions. The smell of roasting meat wafted over to her, and she felt her stomach rumble, a stark reminder of her own needs amidst the chaos.

The conversations grew quieter as the night deepened, the men's voices a soothing lullaby to those who had not found rest in days. Arthas sat with Muradin, the two leaders poring over a makeshift map. Falric and Marwyn moved among the soldiers, their words of encouragement and firm instructions were given to the men

With the camp having descended into a tense but necessary quietude, Jaina waited until the flickering campfires had dimmed, casting long shadows across the snowy ground. The weary soldiers and their dwarven comrades had finallydecided to sleep. Arthas, though still visibly tense, had allowed himself to rest, his armor gleaming faintly in the moonlight as he lay on his makeshift bedroll. Jaina's own fatigue was a constant companion, but her concern for Arthas and the ever-present hunger gnawing at her stomach propelled her into action.

Stealthily, she slipped from her hiding spot, her feet barely disturbing the snow as she approached the fire pit. Her eyes scanned the area, ensuring she remained unnoticed. A roasted drumstick sat on a wooden platter, the last piece of meat untouched, surrounded by a few lonely pieces of bread. She reached out tentatively, her hand hovering over the food as if the simple act of taking it would shatter the precarious peace that held sway over the camp.

Jaina took a deep breath when she felt her stomach growl, steeling herself for the task ahead. With a swift and silent motion, she snatched the food, tucking them into the folds of her cloak. Even in spite of how wrong it was, but Jaina would be fooling herself if she hadn't taken a few things from the Kirin Tor if it meant helping her in her studies.

Her eyes remained on Arthas as she retreated, seeing he was still asleep. She slipped back into her hiding spot, her footsteps muffled by the thick snow.

Once a safe distance away, she found a secluded nook behind a large, snow-laden tree, the low-hanging branches creating a small shelter from the elements. Jaina unwrapped her cloak, revealing the stolen food. She took a moment to warm her hands over the warm bread, feeling the comfort of heat.

"Tsk, I forgot to bring some water with me...", she mumbled to herself.

A jug of water was suddenly offered to her. "Water, my lady?"

Jaina took it without question. "Thank you.", she replied before she began to drink.

Jaina's eyes shot open, the surprise in them as clear as the night sky above. She hastily spat out the mouthful of water, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment as she took in the figure standing before her. It was Captain Falric, his expression a mix of amusement and mild curiosity. Her hand was trembling slightly as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Falric!" she exclaimed in a whisper that seemed too loud in the stillness of the night. "What are you doing here?"

The man chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I could ask you the same, Lady Proudmoore," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I thought the Prince had asked you to remain in Lordaeron."

Her eyes darted back to Arthas, who remained oblivious to the conversation. "It's just...," she began, her voice trailing off as she struggled to find a suitable excuse for her disobedience.

Falric held up a hand, his smile widening. "No need to explain," he said, his tone reassuring. "I know you're not one to disobey without good reason. And if I didn't know any better, I'd say you looked like you were ready to jump out of your skin with worry over our prince."

Jaina's gaze snapped back to him, her eyes narrowing. "You noticed," she murmured, a hint of accusation in her voice.

"It's hard not to," he said, his voice gentle. "But don't you worry, your secret's safe with me. I won't be telling him about your little stroll. Or the food you snatched."

Her cheeks flushed deeper, and she felt a surge of gratitude. "Thank you," she said, her voice sincere.

Falric's curiosity piqued, he leaned against the tree beside her, his eyes studying her intently. "How did you manage to follow us all the way here?" he asked, his tone a blend of amusement and concern.

Jaina took a deep breath, the cold air filling her lungs and steeling her resolve. "I know, but I couldn't stay behind," she confessed, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Uther... he sent me. To make sure Arthas doesn't do anything reckless."

Falric nodded slowly, understanding dawned in his eyes. "So you're here under Uther's orders," he murmured, his gaze still on Arthas. "And you couldn't teleport here without knowing where we were heading?"

Jaina nodded, feeling a weight lifted off her chest as she admitted her secret. "Exactly," she replied, her voice a tad shakier than she would have liked. "The teleportation spells of Kirin Tor are precise, but they require prior knowledge of the destination. I had to stow away on the ship to follow you."

Falric's eyes searched hers, his expression thoughtful. "And you couldn't simply teleport back to the ship when we disembarked?"

"No," she said with a sigh. "The spells I used to track you here were...complex. They don't work in reverse without a predefined return point. And I didn't know where we would land." She took a bite of the bread, feeling the warmth spread through her. "Besides, once I saw what was happening, I knew I couldn't leave Arthas alone. Not again."

The captain studied her for a moment, his expression a mix of admiration and wariness. "You're quite resourceful, aren't you?" he said finally. "But tell me, Lady Jaina, why are you so adamant about keeping an eye on him?"

Jaina hesitated, her gaze drifting back to the sleeping Arthas. "He's...different," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Different, you say?" Falric's voice grew softer as he leaned closer to Jaina, his eyes never leaving Arthas's form. "He's spoken to me as well, you know. Back on the ship."

Jaina's eyes widened with curiosity. "Really? What did he say?"

Falric sighed, his gaze thoughtful. "He spoke of his fears," he revealed, his tone measured and careful. "Of the path he's set upon and the choices he's made. But he didn't elaborate, Jaina. Only that he's afraid of losing control...of becoming something he can't come back from."

The mage's heart ached as she listened, feeling the weight of Arthas's burden pressing down on her own shoulders. "He's never been one to shy away from his responsibilities," she murmured. "But he's never been so...so haunted."

"Aye," Falric agreed, his eyes darkening. "There's a storm in him, one I've never seen before. I fear it's one he's trying to weather alone."

Jaina nodded, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "And I fear the cost of that secrecy," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "The Arthas I know would not keep something from me, especially not something so profound."

The Captain further added. "And he has spoken of you as well."

Falric's words hung heavy in the air, and Jaina felt a stab of pain in her chest. "He talked to you about me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Falric nodded solemnly. "Back at the docks," he said, his gaze never leaving Arthas's form. "He was torn up about it, Jaina. He said that pushing you away was the last thing he wanted to do."

Jaina remembered the harshness of Arthas's voice, the coldness in his eyes that had so uncharacteristically replaced the warmth she had always known. "Why?" she breathed, her voice trembling. "Why is he keeping this from me?"

Falric sighed heavily, his eyes finally meeting hers. "He said he wishes for you to be safe," he revealed. "That's what he said but he does regret that had."

Jaina's frustration grew, her eyes flashing with determination as she faced Falric. "Safe?" she echoed, her voice filled with disbelief. "Is that what he thinks of me? That I'm some sort of damsel in distress?" She clenched her fists. "I am a Kirin Tor Archmage, Falric! The apprentice of Antonidas himself! I've faced a lot that would make men quake in their boots!"

The captain held her gaze, understanding. "I know, Lady Jaina," he said, his voice gentle. "But he's not just any man. Perhaps he fears for you because he cares."

Her eyes searched Falric's, looking for any trace of doubt or deceit, but she found only honesty and compassion. "Cares?" she spat out, the bitterness evident. "He's been pushing me away, treating me as if I'm made of glass. I can handle myself, Falric! I've known him since we were kids! Why does he think I can't handle this!?"

Falric's gaze grew solemn as he spoke. "Because, Lady Jaina," he said, "whatever he's facing, it's something he doesn't want you to have to bear. And perhaps, in his own twisted way, he's trying to protect you."

The mage's eyes narrowed as she digested Falric's words. "Protect me?" she scoffed, her voice laced with anger. "From what? The truth? I've seen horrors, Falric! I even had to take part in putting down civilians out of their misery at Stratholme! I've felt the pain of loss, the agony of watching those I care for suffer, especially him!"

Jaina took a deep, shuddering breath, the cold air piercing her lungs as she fought to regain her composure. Falric watched her with a knowing look, his eyes filled with empathy. "I'm sorry, Falric," she said, her voice still tinged with frustration. "I know you're just trying to help, but I can't sit idly by while Arthas...while he's in pain."

Falric nodded solemnly, his eyes never leaving hers. "I understand," he said, his voice a comforting rumble. "He's shouldering a heavy burden. We all have our battles to fight, and his are just...different." He paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. "Give him time," he urged, his expression earnest. "Once he's finished with his mission here, perhaps he'll find the strength to share his burden with you."

Jaina considered his words carefully. Perhaps he would feel comfortable that he would be able to once his business here was done. "What's the plan for tomorrow, Falric?" Jaina asked, her voice a tad calmer.

The captain looked at her with a serious gaze. "Tomorrow, we fortify the encampment," he said, his eyes shifting to the sleeping form of Muradin and Marwyn. "The Prince, Muradin, and Marwyn will see to the defenses. We've got to be prepared for whatever the Dreadlord throws our way next."

"And what about you and Baelgun?" Jaina inquired, her eyes reflecting the flames of the distant bonfire.

Falric's expression grew grim. "We're going back for the siege engines, but we've only talked about that amongst ourselves but not yet to Prince Arthas and Muradin" he said. "The dwarves left them behind when they retreated. We need those to stand a chance against the undead."

"But after that?" she pressed, her voice filled with hope. "Do you go home then?"

Falric sighed, his eyes searching the horizon as if seeking an answer there. "I wish I could say for sure," he admitted, his gaze returning to hers. "But there's something about the Prince's demeanor that tells me he has another agenda in mind. Something that keeps him here, in this place of suffering. Perhaps not someone, but something."

Jaina felt a cold knot form in her stomach. "What could it be?" she whispered, her eyes filled with dread.

Falric leaned against the tree, his gaze never leaving Arthas. "I can't say for certain," he murmured.

Jaina took a moment to think thoughts racing with the memories in Alterac and Andorhal, and the more recent events in Heartglen and Stratholme. Arthas had indeed shown a level of restraint and strategic thinking that she had never seen in him before. His acts had saved many, and she admired his growth as a leader. Qualities that he didn't show that he was growing. This newfound calmness was something she found utterly perplexing.

"Falric," she began, her voice tentative, "his...his behavior, it's so unlike him. Back when we were kids, Arthas was always the one to charge ahead without thinking. And now, he's...so calculated. So cautious." She paused, looking into the distance as if she had her answer somehwere. "It's almost as if he's lived through all of this before and knows what not to do."

Wait..was she even speaking logically or out of her own paranoia?

Falric nodded solemnly, his gaze following hers to the horizon. "Yes, it's strange, isn't it?" he murmured. "But those very traits have kept us all alive. His decisions, as difficult as they have been, have saved many lives."

Jaina's eyes searched Falric's. "It's almost as if his decisions are tied to something else," she mused. "To those places we've been to... Andorhal, Heartglen, Stratholme, even here in Northrend. It's as if he's...seen it all before." She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And yet, it doesn't align with the Arthas I know. The one who would pursue Mal'Ganis with vengeance and justice in his heart."

Falric nodded thoughtfully. "Aye," he said, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames. "The Prince I knew was a man of passion, driven by his emotions. But now, he's...changed. More cautious, as if he's carrying it all in his shoulders." He took a deep breath. "But perhaps, Lady Jaina, it's because he has seen too much of it. Perhaps he's learned from his past mistakes, and that's what guides him now."

Jaina looked back at Falric, her eyes filled with a mix of confusion and concern. "Falric," she began, her voice shaking slightly, "I know it's not my place to say this, but I can't help but think that Arthas might have known about Muradin's plight in Northrend all along and that he had made up his claims of a dwarven survivor coming to him. Maybe it wasn't just an excuse to come here and rescue him. Maybe it was..." she trailed off, swallowing hard and her voice shaking slightly as she pieced together the puzzle in her mind.

"I think...I think Arthas's true reason for coming to Northrend isn't just to rescue Muradin or fight Mal'Ganis." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "I know he's been acting strange, but it's more than just his fear of losing control. It's as if...as if he's drawn to this place for some other purpose. Something he can't tell us, something that's deeply personal."

Falric's eyes grew wide with surprise. "What are you saying, Jaina?" he asked, leaning in closer to hear her better.

Jaina took a deep breath, her gaze never leaving Arthas. "I think his rescue of the dwarves was genuine, don't get me wrong," she clarified. "But I also believe that he had another motive for coming here, something that's been haunting him from within. And I don't think it's simply Mal'Ganis too."

The captain's expression grew thoughtful. "What could that be?" he asked, his voice filled with curiosity and concern.

"I'm not entirely sure," Jaina admitted, her eyes searching the flames of the bonfire. "But I suspect it's something tied to him and the secrets he kept, something that he feels compelled to face here. And I fear that if we don't understand what it is, we might lose him to it."

Falric studied her. "But why keep it a secret?" he asked, his voice tinged with confusion.

"I do not know." she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "But it is something we have to consider."

Falric nodded slowly. "It's possible," he conceded, his voice filled with a mix of understanding and concern. "But until he confides in us, or until his mission is complete, we cannot be certain."

Jaina nodded back, her eyes never leaving Arthas's distant form. "I know," she murmured. "I need to know what's happening, Falric. And if he won't come to me, then I'll have to find a way to get him to tell me."

The captain's expression grew contemplative. "What are you planning to do?" he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and wariness.

The mage took a deep breath. "For now, I'll keep my distance," she said, her voice firm. "I don't want to push him too hard, not when he's already on the edge. But when the time is right, I'll make him tell me the truth."

Falric nodded, understanding her determination. "And when that time comes," he said, his voice low and serious, "you know you can count on me to support you, Lady Jaina."

The archmage offered him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Falric," she said, her voice filled with emotion. "But until then, I think it's best that I keep a low profile. If he sees me too much, he might suspect something."

Falric nodded, his expression a mix of respect and admiration. "I'll keep an eye on him," he promised. "And when the moment is ripe, I'll make sure to give you the opportunity you need."

He turned to leave, his heavy boots crunching in the snow as he disappeared into the night. Jaina watched him go, feeling a mix of relief and dread. With a sigh, she turned back to the food she snatched and water that Falric had brought her, feeling the warmth of the meal spread through her chilled body.

Finishing her meal, Jaina wrapped herself tightly in her cloak and leaned back against the tree. The cold was biting, but she found some comfort in the quiet of the night. Her eyes drifted back to Arthas, who was still asleep. I'll make you tell me what they were, Arthas.., she thought to herself before she felt drowsy. One way or another...

The dawn of the new day brought with it a harsh, biting cold that seemed to seep into the very bones of the camp. Inside the tent, the light from a single candle cast flickering shadows on the faces of the five individuals huddled around the map that Baelgun had unfurled with a flourish, tracing the path of the siege engines with his stubby finger. "Aye, this be where we left 'em!" he exclaimed. "A fine set of lassies they are, too! Just waitin' for us to come back and show 'em a good time!"

Arthas's gaze was focused and intense as he studied the map. His mind raced with strategies and contingency plans. "Very well," he said, his voice firm. "Falric, I need you to take a group of our most trusted men and retrieve those engines with Baelgun. We cannot allow Mal'Ganis to gain any more ground."

Falric nodded, his own expression grim. "Understood, my Prince," he said, his eyes flicking to Arthas for a brief moment before he turned to gather his equipment.

Muradin leaned in closer to the map, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the layout of the abandoned dwarf positions. "The engines are likely fortified," he said, his voice a low rumble. "We'll have to be careful. We don't know what kind of traps those blasted undead have set up."

As Falric left the tent to prepare his team, Arthas turned to Muradin, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Muradin," he said, his voice low and urgent. "You said during supper the night before that you've heard a floating robed skeleton in command of the undead forces here. Did he mention anything about Mal'Ganis?"

The dwarf nodded, his own gaze grim. "Aye," he said, his voice gruff. "It called itself a Lich, and it was definitely in communication with someone named Mal'Ganis. It's gotta be him."

Arthas nodded, his mind racing. "Which means," he said, tapping the map with a finger, "that means wer can bolster our defenses before he returns. We must be ready for whatever he throws at us."

Muradin's jaw clenched. "Aye," he said, his eyes flashing with anger. "We'll hold 'em off. You can count on us."

Arthas placed a hand on the dwarf's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "Thank you, my friend," he said, his voice filled with gratitude. "We will not fail here."

As Marwyn exited the tent, leaving a trail of frosty air in his wake, Arthas took a moment to gather his thoughts before addressing Muradin. He had to tread carefully; he could not reveal his true intentions or the extent of his knowledge. "Muradin," he began, his voice a low rumble, "I must admit, I'm curious as to why you and your people are here in Northrend. It's not exactly a holiday spot for dwarves, is it?"

Muradin turned to the Prince. "We're here on a quest, lad," he replied gruffly, his beard bristling. "We've heard whispers of a powerful artifact, a blade called Frostmourne, hidden deep in a vault within these icy lands. But it's been lost to time."

Arthas felt his heart skip a beat at the mention of the cursed runeblade. He had hoped that Frostmourne would have stayed buried with the Lich King, forgotten by all. But it seemed persistent. "Frostmourne, you say?" he echoed, feigning ignorance. "How did you come across such information?"

The dwarf king leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "We found some ancient tomes in the caverns in this land," he explained. "The pages spoke of a vault that holds artifacts lost to time. Clues that were...out of place, as if they were meant to be found."

Arthas cupped his chin in deep thought. Mal'Ganis and the Dreadlords had always been masters of manipulation; it was possible that they had planted those clues themselves. He had to be careful not to reveal his own connection to the blade. "And what makes you think this Frostmourne is in this vault?" he asked, his tone curious yet nonchalant.

"The whispers of old spirits we ran across," Muradin replied, his gaze intense. "They speak of a weapon that can vanquish any foe, a blade that can freeze the very soul of the living and raise the dead to serve. Might turn the tide in our favor against those boneheads."

The Prince felt a cold sweat break out on his brow. He knew all too well the power of Frostmourne, and the price it demanded from its wielder.

"Indeed, the whispers of such a weapon are intriguing," Arthas calmly remarked, despite the inner turmoil. "But for now, we must focus on our immediate concerns." He gestured to the map. "We need to prepare the base for any upcoming attack from them."

Muradin nodded, his expression turning from contemplative to one of determination. "Aye," he agreed, his deep voice resonating in the tent. "We'll need to fortify our positions and prepare our troops."

"Marwyn and I will organize the men," Arthas stated. "We'll bolster the defenses and set up traps around the outskirts. We cannot underestimate them."

Muradin grunted in agreement. "And I'll see to the supplies and the morale of the dwarves," he said, before he turned to leave the tent. "We've got work to do, and not much time to do it in."

Arthas watched the dwarf leave the tent. Silently, he prayed to the Light, if it still accepts him, to guide him in these trying times.

Chapter Text

A month passed since the news of Kel'Thuzad's capture reverberated through the halls of Dalaran. The city of mages held its breath, waiting for any news that were sure to come from his detainment. Meanwhile, Kael'thas Sunstrider, Crown Prince of Quel'thalas and senior member of the Kirin Tor, returned to the city after a visit to his homeland.

The grandeur of the Violet Citadel had not lost its charm, but it the climate seemed off as Kael approached the grand archway that led to the inner sanctum. The guards recognized the prince immediately, bowing low in respect. As they opened the gates, Kael walked through, his eyes searching for any sign of Grand Magus Antonidas.

In the bustling courtyard, he spotted Archmage Modera speaking with Telestra, sounding urgent with one another. The sight of the brought him pause. He had not seen Telestra since her appointment to the Council of Six, and her presence here, and it could only mean trouble was afoot.

"Lady Modera, Telestra," Kael called out, his voice echoing against the towering spires. Both mages turned to face him, relieved yet concerned.

"Prince Kael'thas," Modera acknowledged and greeted him, her eyes scanning him for any signs of trouble. "Your timing is impeccable, as always."

Telestra offered a forced smile, her eyes lingering on the prince with a hint of suspicion. "We had not expected your return so soon," she said coolly.

Ignoring the subtle undertone, Kael pressed on. "I seek an audience with Grand Magus Antonidas," he said, his voice firm yet tinged with a hint of weariness from his journey. "Is he in the council chamber?"

The two Archmages looked at one another briefly before she turned to him. "May we know as to why, Prince Kael?"

"An urgent matter ," Kael replied. "My father and I have been discussing the plague that has ravaged Lordaeron and there is worry that it might reach Quel'thalas if we do not act at once. Despite Lady Liadrin's efforts with the Silver Hand and the insights of our own magisters, we have yet to find a means to halt its spread. I have come to see Antonidas in the hopes that he and the Kirin Tor might have a solution of their own."

Modera looked at the Elven prince closely, finding he was incere. "Antonidas is currently in the dungeons," she said, her tone measured. "He is interrogating Kel'Thuzad, who was apprehended by Prince Arthas and Lady Jaina at Andorhal."

Kael's eyes widened, in intrigue. "Kel'Thuzad?" he echoed, still remembering the former Council of Six member who had a less than pleasant reputation. "He's alive?"

"In a manner of speaking," Telestra interjected. "Barely. The scroll used to bind him has left him quite... diminished."

Kael took a moment to digest this unexpected information. "I see," he said slowly. "I had not anticipated that he would be found so soon, nor that he would be in such a state. Ever since he had left."

Modera nodded. "The situation is alarming," she agreed. "He had been the instigator of the plague and whatever he holds may as well be what we need to counter the affliction. But suffice to say...whatever that is inside of his mind are just nightmares manifested..."

Kael leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

Modera's eyes grew solemn as she spoke. "When he was brought before us, he was... changed," she began, her words measured. "His mind, his very soul, seemed to be a cesspool of darkness and decay. The madness that has gripped him is unlike anything. It was as if he had been corrupted by some ancient, malevolent force that had twisted him beyond recognition."

Kael's eyes searched hers, seeking the truth hidden within her words. "What could have done this to him?"

Telestra stepped closer, her voice a low whisper. "We believe it was his obsession with the dark arts, his unbridled interest in necromancy," she said, her expression one of contempt. "He sought to harness the very essence of death itself, and in doing so, he has become a living embodiment of the plague that he unleashed upon your people."

Kael frowned. Sure Kel'thuzad had questionable interests as one of their own at the Kirin Tor, but he didn't anticipate he would go this far. "And what of the Grand Magus?" he asked. "How did he fare when he tried to probe Kel'Thuzad's thoughts?"

Modera's gaze was unwavering. "Antonidas is strong, both in body and spirit," she assured him. "But even he was unprepared from what was in that man's mind. He emerged from the mental link shaken, but he was still determined to know who serves him or who were his co-conspirators."

Kael's thoughts were focused on imagining the troubling scenario. "What kind of power could do this to a man?"

"The kind of power that corrupts even the purest of hearts," Antonidas's voice was a harsh whisper as he emerged from the dungeons, his eyes haunted by what he had seen. His words trailing off as he took in the sight of Kael standing before him. The grand magus looked as if he had aged a decade in the brief time since they had last spoken, his face etched with lines of exhaustion and his eyes sunken with the weight of the horrors he had witnessed.

Telestra stepped closer, her hand reaching out to him in concern. "Master Antonidas, what on earth did you see in his mind?" she asked, her eyes filled with worry.

The archmage's gaze fell to the ground as he took a moment to collect himself. "Evil personified," he murmured, his voice heavy with the burden of his discovery. "And everything it could corrupt."

Kael helped up the Grand Magus, looking at him straight to the eye. "Would you be able to elaborate as to what it was?", he calmly asked of him.

Antonidas took a deep breath as he opened his mouth to speak.

Twenty minutes ago...

Antonidas's eyes searched the depths of Kel'Thuzad's soul as he once again delved into the necromancer's mind. The mental landscape was a desolate, frozen wasteland. The former Kirin Tor's thoughts were like shadows flitting through the ruins of his sanity. The Grand Magus saw Kel'Thuzad wandering through a blizzard, the harsh winds of the frozen north biting at his skin as he spoke to an unseen presence.

The mysterious whispers grew louder as the former Kirin Tor asked for directions, urging him step. He took up the slope was a battle against the relentless gale that sought to push him back to the bottom. The air grew colder, the frostbite of doubt and corruption nipping at his heels as he ascended. The peak of the glacial ridge loomed above, a beacon of darkness that promised the secrets he so desperately sought.

The world around him grew dimmer as the whispers grew stronger, their seductive embrace promising power beyond to whatever he could see. With every painstaking breath, Kel'Thuzad drew closer, a place where the very fabric of his being had been. The ascent was arduous, a trek through the very essence of his soul, but the promises made to him kept him pressing forward.

Antonidas peered in, eyes widened in both awe and in disbelief as in spite of the treacherous conditions, the former Kirin Tor moved forward without any care of his well being. Finally, he arrived at the zenith of his madness, where a colossal block of ice, loomed before him.

Within this frozen prison, a set of armor lay dormant—a terrifying amalgamation of shadow and gleaming silver that seemed to pulse with a malevolent aura. The helm, crowned with horns and adorned with spectral eyes the color of the coldest winter, regarded Kel'Thuzad with a chilling gaze.

The Grand Magus felt the very fabric of reality tremble as the necromancer knelt, his broken soul offering obeisance to the monstrous specter that lay within the icy embrace. The armor's eyes flared with power, the spectral blue light piercing the darkness as the creature acknowledged its servant's presence as he bowed before him in reference.

As Antonidas watched, horrified, the malevolent spirit within the ice began to stir. A swirl of shadow and malice coalesced around Kel'Thuzad, his body convulsing as the blue spectral energy poured into him. The man's eyes widened, the pupils dilating to swallow the irises, becoming twin pools of shadowy abyss. His skin grew paler, almost translucent, as the veins beneath began to pulse with a sickly blue light that seemed to pulse in time with the heartbeat of the monstrous entity before him.

The very air grew colder, as if the spirit of winter itself had invaded the chamber, bringing with it the promise of an eternal frost that would consume all in its path. The whispers grew into a cacophony of voices, a chrous of pain and despair that seemed to resonate with every beat of the Archmage's racing heart

The spectral eyes within the helm narrowed, focusing on the trembling form of Kel'Thuzad as he offered up his very soul to the monstrous will that had claimed him. The air grew thick with the scent of decay and the metallic tang of fresh blood as the spirit reached out, its hand of pure, dark energy coalescing into a grip that closed around the man's heart, crushing it with an audible snap.

Antonidas's stomach churned as he watched Kel'Thuzad, his fellow seeker of knowledge, willingly submit to the monstrous spirit. The former Archmage's body spasmed as the dark essence seeped into him, his very being rewritten by the power that had claimed him. Yet amidst the chaos, Kel'Thuzad found a twisted peace, his shattered soul a vessel for the malevolence that had once whispered in his ear. The armor of the creature grew more defined, the spectral eyes burning with a cold, calculated hunger as it regarded its new servant.

The necromancer's voice, now a hollow echo of what it once was, spoke up, "Tell me, my lord," he rasped, "who is it that I serve?"

The helmet's eyes spectral eyes looked down at his new servant. Instinctively, Antonidas went closer to know, in spite of the excessive caution. But he remained calm, reminding himself this was only a memory.

Only for the spectral, blue eyes to shift from Kel'Thuzad. To Antonidas himself.

The icy grip of the spirit's gaze latched onto Antonidas's soul, the Grand Magus felt as if he was drowning in an ocean of malevolence. His body convulsed, his heart hammering against his ribs as if it too sought to escape the horror that had taken hold of him. His eyes bulged, his vision blurring as the spectral tendrils of the spirit's power coiled around him, tightening like the noose of a hangman's knot. The cold of Kel'Thuzad's corrupted soul seeped into his very bones, threatening to freeze the very marrow. The air grew thick with the scent of decay, the chill of the grave reaching out to claim him.

With a monumental effort, Antonidas will surged. He screamed silently, his mind reeling back from the brink of madness. The tendrils retreated, his vision cleared, and he found himself standing in the dank, torchlit dungeon once more. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hands trembling as he clutched his chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart, the very essence of his life, still within him. He stumbled backward, his legs threatening to give way beneath him as the mental connection was severed. Antonidas's knees buckled, and he collapsed to the cold stone floor, clutching his chest.

All the while the Necromancer was still unconscious on his chair. But a twisted smile crept to his lips at the Grand Magus, who could only turn back and exited the dungeon to compose himself.

Modera and Telestra stared at the Grand Magus, their eyes wide with horror as they digested the harrowing tale he had just recounted. The dungeon air grew colder, as if the very chill of the glacial spire had seeped into the chamber.

"This... this is beyond anything we have ever encountered," Modera whispered, her hand shaking as it rested on her chest.

"What you've described is not merely a corruption," Telestra murmured, her voice tight with fear. "But for that being to live in the memory and mind..."

"I did not think it would have been possible...". Kael's expression was grim as he processed the implications. "But how?"

Antonidas rubbed his temples. "The moment he gave up his soul...his mind and body were in a way became intertwined..."

"If Kel'Thuzad's mind was indeed connected to this... entity, then our very probing of his thoughts could have given it insight into us," Kael said, his voice a low rumble. "We have to proceed with caution. The Kirin Tor's greatest weapon is its knowledge and to allow such darkness to taint it would be catastrophic."

Antonidas's nodded, looking weary. "It is as you say, Prince Kael," he agreed, his voice still unsteady. "The mind of Kel'Thuzad is a labyrinth of corruption. Any further attempt to delve into it would be akin to walking into the jaws of the beast itself."

The three mages stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their discovery hanging heavy over them.

"We still haven't found any source of this plague," Kael'Thas stated, his gaze intense as he looked at Antonidas. "If Kel'Thuzad is indeed the architect, then there is be something in his recent past that can lead us to the cure or the means to halt it."

Modera's expression was one of concern and hesitation. "But Kael, the risk is too great. To delve into his memories so deeply, we might invite that malevolent force into our own minds."

Telestra nodded in agreement. "His experience was harrowing enough. If we go deeper, we could all fall prey to its influence."

"I understand your fears, Modera, Telestra," Antonidas's voice was steady, "But if there is any chance that Kel'Thuzad's memories hold the key to halting this scourge, we must take it." His eyes searched the faces of his comrades, seeking their agreement. "But not now. I would have to reconsider our options."

Modera looked at him, her eyes filled with concern. "Antonidas, are you certain you can withstand it? Your health is already..."

"I am aware of my limits. If we can find even a shred of insight that points us towards a cure or a means to combat this plague, then it is worth the risk." He took a deep, shaky breath and left to take a rest. Kael, Modera and Telestra only look uncertain, unsure what to make of this.

Mal'Ganis' eyes narrowed at the fading image of Arthas and his allies, his mind racing with the possibilities. He knew that the prince's determination was a double-edged sword, one that could be used to either further the Legion's cause or bring about their downfall. As the shadows around him grew denser, he felt the presence of his fellow Dreadlord, his superior no less.

Tichondrius materialized beside him, his serene form a stark contrast to the disgusting sight of the Scourge below them. "You seem pleased with this turn of events," he observed, his tone devoid of any warmth.

"Indeed," Mal'Ganis replied, "The prince chose to follow my presence here in this land. A little nudge would sway him to the right direction. And we won't have to worry about the rest."

Tichondrius' expression remained stoic, his gaze unwavering. "Do not underestimate the resilience of these mortals, Mal'Ganis. The damage of their city of Stratholme is but a drop in the sea of their potential."

"Their suffering will be our catalyst," Mal'Ganis countered, his confidence unshaken. "Their rage will fuel the fires of the Scourge, making them ripe for the Scourge's control."

The tension between the two Dreadlords grew palpable, their opposing strategies and views clear as day. "But what of their ability to rebuild?" Tichondrius pressed. "Their numbers are vast, and their capacity for recovery is not to be discounted. This is not the victory we need to ensure our dominance."

Mal'Ganis' grin grew colder. "Patience, Tichondrius. The prince's journey to Northrend will serve a greater purpose than merely securing his place. Their fates are sealed and once the Prince is constricted by the Lich King when the time is right, the final blow shall be struck."

Tichondrius did not say anything further other than a subtle nod that also told him to make sure he plays his part before he disappeared from his fellow Dreadlord's view. Despite this, he couldn't help but feel something is amiss despite the promising leads.

Falric surveyed the abandoned dwarven outpost from a distance, where his eyes scanned the undead forces that surrounded the siege engines. He turned to Baelgun, looking determined yet cautious at the same time..

"We're outmatched," Baelgun murmured, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the enemy numbers. "But we've got the element of surprise on our side, and that counts for something."

Falric nodde. "We'll need to be swift and precise," he said. "As much as possible, we need to take out the necromancers first. They're the ones giving life to these monstrosities."

"Aye," Baelgun agreed. "And I've got just the plan to do that. My riflemen can pick 'em off from afar, while your footmen create a distraction."

Falric considered the proposal for a moment before nodding. "Very well," he said. "We'll split into two groups. My men will draw the attention of the ghouls and the Abomination, while your riflemen target the necromancers. Once they're down, we move in for the engines."

Baelgun cracked a rare smile, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "Sounds like a good ol' fashioned dwarven raid!" he exclaimed. "Let's get to it, lads!"

Baelgun raised his hand high, and with a fierce battle cry, he brought it down sharply, signaling his mortar teams to unleash their fury. The thunderous boom echoed through the frigid air as the mortars belched forth a volley of explosive shells that arced gracefully towards the undead encampment. The glow of the fuses pierced the pre-dawn gloom, painting the sky with a macabre display of light and shadow.

Falric's heart raced as he watched the fiery projectiles rain down upon the unsuspecting ghouls and spiders, their skeletal forms momentarily silhouetted against the explosive bursts before being torn apart in a shower of frosty gore and splintered bone. The chaos was immediate and overwhelming, as the ground trembled with the impact of the explosions and the undead forces stumbled back in shock and disarray.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Falric raised his own hand and shouted the charge, the crisp order cutting through the din of battle. His footmen responded with a roar, their booted feet thudding against the frozen ground as they sprinted towards the Siege Engines. The knights' shields glinted in the flickering firelight, and their swords were raised high. Falric could see the fear in the eyes of some of the younger soldiers, but it was tempered with a fierce determination that mirrored his own.

"For the King and country! Charge!" Falric bellowed, his war cry echoing across the battlefield. His men took up the chant and charged with him. The undead, though thrown into disarray by the mortar fire, began to recover and turn their attention towards the incoming threat.

The ground beneath the living warriors trembled once more as the lifeless forms of the slain dwarves began to stir. The two Necromancers, hidden among the ruins of the outpost, had worked their dark magic, reanimating the slain dwarves into a twisted parody of their former selves. Falric watched as the once proud warriors of the Bronzebeard clan turned on their living brethren as they mindlessly serve the undea.

"To the Necromancers!" Falric bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Take them down, and their control over the dead will wane!" His knights understood and charged ahead, their swords slicing through the air with renewed vigor. But it was easier said than done as the newly raised dwarf-corpses surged forth to protect their dark masters.

Jaina looked out of the battle that unfolded. She had felt the tremors of the mortar strikes and the echoes of battle cries. But she knew they needed support somehow.

Silently drawing her power, she summoned two towering water elementals from the moat surrounding the outpost. The elementals surged forth, their forms rippling like liquid steel as they crashed into the fray. The sight of these sudden and unexplained allies sent a wave of hope through the beleaguered defenders, and even the undead hesitated for a moment, their unliving eyes widening in shock.

The Abomination, a hulking monstrosity of rotting flesh and bone, had been laying waste to Falric's knights and Baelgun's riflemen. But with the arrival of the water elementals,. The two spectral guardians barreled into the creature, holding the creature in place as it struggled. Falric and Baelgun, seeing the opportunity, rallied their troops and charged ahead. Falric's sword flashed in the dim light as he hacked through the Abomination's thick, diseased limbs. Baelgun, with a grin of reckless abandon, leaped onto the creature's back, driving his two axes into the creature's skull.

"Now what the bloody hell was that?", Baelgun bellowed, pointing his axe at the two elementals. Jaina found herself being looked at Falric from the distance, who nodded at her in thanks.

"Friends from afar," Falric replied to Baelgun, his voice tinged with relief and gratitude. "Their aid was most welcome." He turned his gaze to Jaina, who nodded imperceptibly from her hidden vantage point.

With the necromancers dealt with and their control over the undead dissipating, the remaining ghouls and dwarf-corpses faltered in their attack. The combined forces of the living pressed forward, their spirits buoyed by the sudden turn of events. Falric signaled to his knights, and they reformed their ranks around the water elementals.

"Good work, lads!" Baelgun boomed, slapping Falric on the back. "But we ain't out of the storm yet. We've got to get those engines up and running before whatever freak that leads them and his army catch wind of what's happening here."

With renewed urgency, the dwarf and the paladin coordinated their troops. Baelgun's riflemen and surviving footmen scurried to man the siege engines, their hands moving swiftly over the levers and gears, bringing the mighty machines back to life. Falric's knights, their swords still wet with the gore of the undead, took up positions around the engines, ready to fend off any stragglers.

As the last of the enemy forces were dispatched, Falric turned to Baelgun. "We must inform Arthas and Muradin of our success," he said urgently. "Our victory here is but the first step in our counterattack. We need to bring these engines to them."

Baelgun nodded, his eyes alight with understanding. "Aye," he agreed, his voice gruff with excitement. "We'll show those blighted bastards what they ran into!"

It was a chaotic sight. The walls shook with the thunderous impact of the Scourge's Meat Wagons, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and the screams of the dying. "Hold the line!" Arthas roared, his hammer cleaving through the icy air as he struck down a shambling abomination that had breached their defenses. Muradim, determined to push them back, threw his mace at an incoming Gargoyle and charged with his axe with the precision of a blacksmith hammering an anvil, crushing skulls and splintering bone with each blow.

Marwyn, with a telescope in his hand, shouted orders to his dwarven riflemen. "Aim for the ghouls!" he bellowed to them, then turned to the mortar teams. "Mortars! Concentrate fire on those Meat Wagons" His words were punctuated by the whistle of incoming projectiles, which slammed into the undead ranks with the force of a thousand hammers. The Meat Wagons exploded, scattering bits of gore from its load, but few appeared to replace them almost immediately.

"Falric and Baelgun must be on their way with those engines," Arthas grunted, his eyes never leaving the battle before him. "We must hold out until they return!"

Muradin, his axe slick with gore, nodded firmly. "We're on it, lad!" he roared. The dwarven riflemen responded with a resounding cheer, their shots becoming more rapid and precise as they took down the flying Gargoyles one by one, but several were swooped up and devoured. The mortar crews, under Marwyn's watchful eye, adjusted their aims with each volley.

The distant rumble of approaching engines grew louder, sending a jolt of hope through Arthas's weary body. The ground trembled beneath their feet as four massive Siege Engines emerged from the mist, their metal frames groaning with the weight of their destructive power. Falric and Baelgun rode at the forefront, followed by the men who they follow them closely from behind.

"They got the engines!" Muradin bellowed, his deep voice resonating through the din of battle. "Just a little more, lads!"

Marwyn's eyes lit up with excitement and he turned to Arthas, his expression a mix of pride and hope. "We've done it, sire. We've brought the fight to them!"

Arthas could not help but feel a surge of relief wash over him. "Yes, we have," he said, his eyes never leaving the reinforcements. "But the battle is far from over."

The Siege Engines charged forward, their wheels crushing the remnants of the undead that Falric and Baelgun's forces had not yet dispatched. The engines' payloads rained down upon the enemy lines, sending explosive death to those who dared stand against them. The Scourge, caught off guard, staggered and broke rank, their numbers momentarily scattered.

"Now is our chance!" Falric shouted, his voice carrying over the roar of battle. "Take the fight to them! For Lordaeron!"

The combined forces of the Alliance surged forth, their spirits buoyed by the arrival of the heavy artillery. The dwarven riflemen picked off any stragglers with deadly accuracy, while the knights and footmen regrouped around the engines, using their protective bulk as a shield against the undead's relentless attacks.

"Hold your positions! Give'em hell on my mark!" Muradin's voice boomed across the battlefield, his command echoed by the dwarven engineers manning the machines.

Marwyn, his eyes narrowed in focus, barked out the coordinates to the engineers. "Target the retreating necromancers! Do not let them escape to raise more of their foul minions!" His words were met with a series of nods and the cranking of gears and a barrage of gunpowder and scorching projectiles decimated them. The dwarven riflemen took cover, their eyes flicking between their allies and the retreating undead, ready to provide cover fire should the need arise.

As the last of the undead staggered away from the battlefield, Arthas and Muradin signaled for the retreat. Once within the relative safety of the fortifications, the leaders gathered the survivors around the crackling bonfire. Falric's knights and Baelgun's riflemen leaned heavily on their weapons, clearly exhausted.

"Well done, all of you," Arthas began, his voice weary yet filled with pride. "Their ranks have been broken, and we wouldn't have to worry for another attack." He looked around, meeting the gazes of his comrades.

Muradin stepped forward. "Aye, we've sent their bones flying and their spirits running," he said with a gruff chuckle. "But we're not done yet." He clapped a hand on Falric's shoulder. "We'll be bringing the fight to them on their turf!"

The dwarf's words were met with a round of weary cheers, as they thought that this would be over soon. Muradin then studied Arthas for a brief moment before speaking to him,. "The Dreadlord will not sit idly by, that much is certain," he said gruffly. "But we've bought ourselves some time."

Arthas nodded, his eyes shadowed with unspoken thoughts. "We have for now," he murmured. "When this is all over, I need your help with something personal."

The dwarf was intrigued yet he agreed with it. "Name it, lad," he said without hesitation. "You've earned that much and more."

The prince took a deep breath. "Find Frostmourne," Arthas said, his voice sounding with a mix of dread and determination. "After we've secured the land and driven back the Scourge, I need you to help me locate the blade."

Muradin's eyes widened in surprise, but he said nothing. "I'll do as you ask," he agreed, his voice low and solemn. "But what's your aim with it?"

Arthas's jaw clenched, his eyes distant. "It's... complicated," he admitted. "But I assure you, it's for the best. I just need to set something right, once and for all."

Muradin clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "Then I'll have the honor in making sure you do lad," he said. "You have my word."

The two stood in silence, the crackling fire casting flickering shadows across their faces as they contemplated the battles ahead, each man bearing the weight of his own secret fears and burdens.

Unknown to them, Falric had overheard of their conversation amidst the celebrations, unsure what to make of it...

Jaina, her eyes reflecting the flickering light of the bonfire, watched as Arthas moved among the soldiers, his words of encouragement and his genuine care for their well-being resonating through the camp from the distance. It was a stark contrast to the brooding figure she had become accustomed to seeing, and it brought a small smile to her lips. She had noticed a subtle shift in him since their arrival in Northrend, a hint of the prince she had known before he began to act strangely.

She was curious on what they're talking about since she couldn't hear them. But for now, she would have to remain hidden, her own fears and uncertainties simmering below the surface as she pondered their next move.

"Thought I find you here...", she turned around to find Falric approaching her where he took a seat on a log in the opposite of her. "Did you manage to get something to eat at least?"

"Had to teleport back to the ships to see what I could find, and also have to mind getting clean water since I don't think taking any from Water Elementals are any hygienic or even edible at that matter", she said in reply, sounding deadpanned.

Falric chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Aye, a month at sea does make one crave the comforts of solid ground," he said, tearing a piece of jerky with his teeth. "But your aidhas been a boon to us, Jaina. Without it, retrieving those engines would have been a far more daunting task." He paused, his gaze drifting over to the prince.

Falric looked at Jaina, noticing the sadness in her eyes as she watched Arthas from afar. "How is he?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Does he...seem alright?"

Falric took a moment to chew and swallow before answering. "The prince has been...different, now," he admitted. "More focused, perhaps. He's been spending much time with the men, discussing tactics and strategy with Muradin and fraternitizing even. It's good to see him so engaged, even if only for this moment."

Jaina nodded thoughtfully, her gaze lingering on Arthas. "He's always been a born leader," she murmured. "But it feels like there's something more, doesn't it?"

Falric met her gaze, understanding the unspoken concern behind her words. "Aye," he said gravely. "But at least it appeared that he is trying to resolve it, with varying results depending on the perspective."

The mage sighed, leaning back on the log. "I wish I could talk to him," she said, her voice filled with longing. "The way we used to."

Falric nodded, his expression sympathetic. "Give him time, Lady Jaina," he said gently. "Perhaps when we've seen the last of this Scourge, he'll find the peace he seeks."

"What have you learned today, Falric?" Jaina asked, her eyes still on Arthas as he moved through the camp, checking on the injured and speaking with his men. Falric's expression grew serious as he shared what he had overheard.

"The Prince and Muradin spoke of an artifact named Frostmourne," he said, his tone low so as not to be overheard. "He seems to hold a great interest in it, enough to ask Muradin to help him locate it once our work here is done."

Jaina carefully registered that information within her thoughts. "Frostmourne," she murmured, turning to Falric with a look of dawning realization. "Could it be... could it be the reason he's really here? Besides saving Muradin or fighting Mal'Ganis?"

Falric's expression grew thoughtful. "It's possible," he admitted, his eyes flicking back to Arthas before returning to Jaina. "But whatever it is, it' holds value to him that I could not easily decipher..."

Falric's gaze grew introspective as he spoke further of Arthas' behavior. "When he spoke of Frostmourne, his eyes... they had this strange light in them," he said, his voice hushed. "It was almost as if he was...relieved that he had finally found what he was looking for."

Jaina's eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Relieved?" she echoed, her voice filled with doubt. "What kind of artifact could make him feel that way?"

The knight shrugged his shoulders, his expression troubled. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I've never seen him react so strongly to anything before. It's as if... it's personal."

Jaina's heart skipped a beat, her thoughts racing. "Could it be something that can help us against the Scourge?" she suggested hopefully, but mellowed out. "Or something else..."

Falric nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Arthas. "I do not know," he said, his voice measured. "But I fear there's more to it than that."

"Please, Falric," Jaina urged, her voice a soft plea. "Keep an eye on him. If he needs anything, or if he seems troubled, let me know." She knew that Falric was Arthas' most trusted confidant and would understand her concern without her having to voice it aloud.

The knight nodded solemnly. "You have my word, Lady Jaina," he said, his eyes flickering with understanding. "If there's anything amiss, I will not hesitate to bring it to your attention."

With that, Falric took his leave, disappearing into the camp to rejoin his comrades. Jaina watched him go, her heart heavy with the burden of her own fears. The name "Frostmourne" had stirred something deep within her, something that translates into something so dangerous and detrimental to the Prince or to anyone else.

Chapter Text

Alone on the cliff's edge, Arthas stared out into the tumultuous sea, with the cold having been immune to him since he was so used to it.

As he sat in contemplation, he thought as he is now close in making sure his mistakes won't happen again. Bringing down Mal'Ganis, and perhaps the most important, ensuring that the weapon of his downfall, Frostmourne, would never be wielded by anyone again

Even still, would he still have the need to reveal anything once the dust had settled?. Would they look at him the same way if he did? Would Jaina recoil from the monster he was if she ever knew the truth?

His memories took him back at the Icecrown Citadel, of the icy throne room where he had belonce sat as the Lich King, his soul shackled to of his own decisions. The screams of the innocents he had slain, the betrayal of his comrades, the fall of his beloved kingdom and others—these images were forever etched into his mind.

Even still, the hope of him preventing those mistakes burned alive within, even if no one had to know what he had done.

Arthas couldn't help but remember the very day after he had rescued Muradin. This was supposed to be the day the envoy arrived, bearing the king's decree for him to return home, to leave the pursuit of vengeance. His father had called for him, concerned for his son's descent into darkness at Uther's behest, but Arthas had been blinded by his need for vengeance. In his pride and obsession in taking the Dreadlord's head, he had ordered the destruction of his own fleet, eliminating any option for retreat. The screams of the mercenaries he had used to achieve his ends still echoed in his memory—his own doing, his own betrayal.

He had sacrificed them all for his pride and his obsession with the Dreadlord's head. And now, as he stood on the precipice of a similar choice.

He had been a fool. Uther did what he could to try and help him out of his quest for vengeance. But he disregarded his mentor's teachings, and ultimately paid the price for it.

And now, in the present, he had used Muradin's predicament as an excuse to do what needs to be done. The ruse of saving the dwarf and his men was his justification to make sure that he won't be recalled by his father or Uther, who might otherwise recall him and his men if he was to do something else. It was a decision born of selfishness, he knew that. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to regret it fully. In his heart, he knew that destroying Mal'Ganis and Frostmourne was essential to make sure Lordaeron would stand against the undead onslaught.

Arthas's thoughts drifted to Jaina. The pain she felt as he had turned away from her. The choice to leave her behind was a harsh one, but it was born from his fear of what could happen if she were to discover his true intentions or of her being face to face with Mal'Ganis. He had hoped that by the time he returned from his mission, she would still be in Dalaran or assisting Uther in removing whatever influence Kel'thuzad still had.

Which made him wish that he had given Uther the list of the hidden members of the Cult of the Damned still in hiding.

He wondered if she had returned to Dalaran, to give her report to Antonidas. Perhaps she was even now, poring over ancient tomes and scrolls, seeking knowledge as she was studious. Or maybe she had been called upon to assist in the interrogation of Kel'Thuzad, which he surmised wouldn't have been as easy one. Because who knows what's inside of that man's head.

"Figured I find ya here", the familiar voice of Muradin came. "How have you been doing, lad?"

Arthas glanced over to see Muradin, his weathered face holding camaraderie. "Aye, I am," Arthas said, forcing a smile that fell shortly. "Just contemplating tomorrow's strategy."

Muradin studied him for a moment. "The deadwon't be an easy foe to break," he said, his gaze following Arthas' out to the horizon. "But we've faced worse together, lad."

"Indeed we have," Arthas replied, the echo of their battles in the past resonating in his words.

The dwarf looked at Arthas with a furrowed brow. "What's on your mind, lad?" he asked, clearly concerned.

The prince took a deep breath before speaking. "Muradin," he began, "have I ever been too selfish? Too prideful even?"

The dwarf paused, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation, contemplating the question with a thoughtful look. "What makes ya say that, lad?"

"Self-reflection...", Arthas replied. "I just wish to know the extent of what I've been doing."

Muradin chuckled. "Well, when you were but a wee lad," he began, "you always had a penchant for the most daring paths in our little adventures. You'd charge ahead without a second thought for the risks. Failure was something you didn't take lightly, and it always drove you to try harder the next time."

The dwarf paused. "But selfish? Nay, lad. Not in the way you're thinking. And if it's pride you're worried about, well, every leader's got a bit of that. It's what makes 'em stand tall when the rest are ready to fall."

The two sat in silence for a moment. Arthas took in Muradin's words, the warmth of the dwarf's friendship and belief in him acting as a balm to the cold ache within him. Forget this business! Lead your men home!

I wish I could Muradin, but not yet...

Muradin thoughtfully looked out to the sea before speaking again. "But if ya mean keeping your troubles to yourself," he said, his eyes locking onto Arthas's, "that's a different beast entirely. It's one thing to be proud of your achievements, quite another to bear your troubles alone."

Arthas's eyes searched Muradin's, seeking the truth behind his words. "Is it selfish, then, to keep my fears and my doubts from my friends?"

The dwarf's gaze grew solemn, and he placed a firm hand on Arthas's shoulder. "In a way, lad," he said, his voice gruff but gentle. "When you keep your troubles bottled up, you're not just protecting your pride; you're also denying those who cared for you. They're not just soldiers under your command, they're your friends who looked out for ya without anything to ask in return. They've earned the right to share your burdens."

Muradin's words struck a chord within Arthas. "You're right," Arthas murmured, his eyes still on the horizon. "I've been so focused that I felt that I have ignored others who deserves a chance to change theirs."

Muradin nodded, his hand giving Arthas's shoulder a firm squeeze. "We all got our demon," he said. "But we fight them best when we've got good people by our side. And I can't think of a better group than what we got here."

Arthas turned to Muradin, his expression a mix of gratitude and solemnity. "Thank you, Muradin," he sincerely said. "Your words...they mean a lot to me."

Muradin simply nodded, his hand still resting heavily on Arthas's shoulder. "You have to remember, lad," he said firmly. "No matter the secrets you hold, there will always be those who look out for ya. And whenever possible, let them help you as you would to them."

The dwarf's words resonated within him."I will," Arthas promised, his voice steadier than it had been in days.

Muradin clapped him on the back, a hearty smile spreading across his face. "Good lad," he said. "Now, let's get some rest. We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and we'll need our wits about us to tackle whatever that Dreadlord throws our way."

Mal'Ganis could feel something was off.

Firstly, the Prince was supposed to be driven vengeance after the damage inflicted at Lordaeron, where he would lure the human into their grasp by having him take up the mantle as their temporary asset of the Burning Legion. But from what he observed, the Prince did not have the vengeful aura that he should have in the name of justice, or so he thinks to himself. Which is concerning as his overall behavior was tied to him taking whatever it is necessary to destroy his foes. But the Prince was calm, focused, though it was clear he was cautious, as if he is no longer under the Dreadlord's palm in the long run.

Meaning he need to force the Prince in a position that he would be made to take whatever power that is necessary. Sure, his minions of the Scourge would probably be wiped out. But the dead are resilient and can be remade again as they are nothing more than corpses to be raised in order to serve.

"My lord," Ras Frostwhisperer approached Mal'Ganis with a stiff gait, his eyes glowing a cold blue. "Our initial assault on the dwarven encampment has failed and that they have received reinforcements from the mainland."

The Dreadlord was impassive, registering the information. "Failure is a temporary state, Ras," he said, his voice a low growl. "Their valor is commendable, but futile. ."

He paused, stroking his chin with a demonic finger. "Their valor is not lost on me," he mused. "Gather the remains of the fallen dragons. We have use for them."

Ras looked up. "You wish to turn them, my Lord?", he asked.

Mal'Ganis nodded slowly. "Indeed, Ras. They would prove useful," he affirmed. "But do not mistake our restraint for weakness. We need him alive for now."

Ras's gaze flickered with confusion. "But why not just eliminate him now?" he questioned. "He's already proven to be an obstacle to our cause."

The Dreadlord's eyes narrowed. "Because, my impatient servant," Mal'Ganis hissed, "his survival, for now, is crucial. Ner'zhul has invested much in him. Should he continue to resist, then yes, he will be eliminated. But until that moment," he paused, his voice dripping with malice, "We await his decision."

The Lich turned away, his gaze lingering on the distant horizon. "Our true enemy is time, Ras," he continued. When the time is right, when he has served his purpose," Mal'Ganis' voice grew darker still, "then and only then will we decide his fate. Until then, keep a close watch on him."

Ras bowed his head in understanding. "As you command, my lord," he murmured, before retreating to carry out his orders.

In the early morning within the command tent, Arthas, Muradin, Falric, Marwyn, and Baelgun looked over the map scanned the map carefully. The undead base lay marked with a crimson X, which by eliminating it, would break the undead siege on the dwarves and potentially establishing a perimeter that would allow them to mount future attacks if needed.

"Assuming the damage from yesterday is suffice, the Scourge is already regrouping and replenishing their numbers," Arthas spoke in caution and careful calculation. "Our chance is here with us, while their forces are still weakened from our last engagement."

Muradin nodded. "Aye," he said gruffly. "But we can't just charge in blindly. We need to be smart about this."

Baelgun leaned in closer to the map. "The Siege Engines would help" he suggested, pointing to a spot on the map. "We could position them here, just outside of their visual range, and use 'em to lay down a barrage to soften up their defenses."

Falric nodded in agreement. "Aye," he said, following his dwarf counterpart. "And we still have a few mortars left from the last battle. If we can synchronize their fire with the Engines, it would give us a significant advantage once we handle what remained."

It was convenient for the Prince. If they would be able to break the siege now, the Scourge would be weakened enough, which may allow him to pursue Mal'Ganis or Frostmourne before he would give the order to evacuate Northrend.

Marwyn's voice cut in. "The scouts have returned, Your Highness," he said, his tone urgent. "They've spotted undead stragglers scavenging the battlefield, gathering body parts from the slain."

Arthas knew what he was talking about. "They're replenishing their forces," he murmured. "The Scourge are notorious for their efficiency in such matters. They won't let good resources go to waste."

Muradin's gaze grew dark. "They're crafting abominations, no doubt," he growled.

Arthas looked up from the map, his jaw set firmly. "We attack at once," he ordered, his voice steady and commanding. "Before they'd be able to replenish their numbers further. Just remember they are resilient, so make sure they are at least immobilized to make sure they won't be able to fight anymore."

Falric, Marwyn, and Baelgun nodded in unison before exiting the tent, their boots crunching in the snow as they dispersed to prepare their respective forces. The air outside was crisp and cold, the tension palpable as the soldiers of Lordaeron and the dwarfs of Ironforge bustled about, readying themselves for the imminent battle. The three of them moved through the camp, issuing orders and checking on their troops.

Jaina awoke with a start to the distant rumble of Siege Engines and the rhythmic march of booted feet on packed snow. Her eyes darted around her campsite, nestled within the shadows of a small copse of trees, a safe distance from the bustling human and dwarven forces. The air was thick with anticipation and the scent of imminent conflict. She had hoped to avoid them, to keep her distance, but the sounds of battle called to her like a siren's song. She had to be careful though, and she needed to observe Arthas even further to gather more clues as to what was troubling him since.

Carefully, she approached the edge of the woods, peering through the dense foliage. She watched as the Prince and his comrades, Falric, Muradin, Marwyn and Baelgun, emerged from their own camp, their faces etched with determination and strategy.

Jaina felt the tingling ofenergy in the air. She had sensed something similar before, but the power was now magnified—twisted and corrupted. As Arthas and his allies marched towards the undead camp, she could see the undead forces scrambling to reinforce their defenses, their movements erratic and uncoordinated. It was as if some unseen force was wreaking havoc within their ranks.

The lines were in disarray, with skeletal soldiers stumbling over one another and mindless zombies shambling in confusion. The necromancers' spells seemed to falter, their control over the lifeless masses slipping away like snow under a spring thaw.

Jaina watched from afar as the Ras strode through the chaotic undead camp. He barked out an order to a cowering necromancer, who stuttered his response. The necromancer's eyes were wild with fear as he reported their dwindling control over the Scourge forces. Ras's cold gaze narrowed, and he spoke with a chilling calm that sent a shiver down Jaina's spine. "Hold your positions," he instructed. "Mal'Ganis has other plans for these lands. The dragon's remains will serve us well."

The mention of dragons piqued Jaina's interest, but she had to be quiet with this. The necromancer nodded, his fear replaced with a glimmer of hope, and scurried away to relay the message to the rest of the undead horde. As they moved to bolster their defenses, Jaina took a moment to ponder. What could the Dreadlord want with dragon remains?

Curious, she followed the Lich at a safe distance. She approached a yawning cavern that lay shrouded in a pall of unnatural frost. Jaina took a deep breath, steeling herself, and stepped into the frigid darkness. The cavern's walls were slick with ice, and the air was thick with the stench of decay and dark magic. In the cavern's depths, she beheld a ghastly sight: the desecrated remains of a blue dragon, its scales now a dull gray and its eyes vacant sockets.

Necromancers swarmed around the dragon's carcass, their incantations echoing off the icy walls as they channeled their vile power into it. Jaina watched in both fascination and horror as the creature began to stir, the necrotic energy pulsing through its veins, turning the blood to slush. The dragon's eyes flickered to life, now a cold, unfeeling blue. Rasstood at the head of the ritual, his skeletal form seemingly invigorated by the dark sorcery.

Ras brought up his hand imbued with energy upon the dragon's forehead, the runes upon it blazing with a frosty light. The creature let out a bone-chilling roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cavern. The necromancers stepped back, allowing the newborn Frost Wyrm to rise, its wings unfurling with a sound like cracking ice. The beast's breath was a gust of freezing wind that sent shivers down Jaina's spine, despite her mage's robes.

The sight was terrifying and awe-inspiring in equal measure.

Ras gazed upon the reanimated Frost Wyrm with a twisted sense of satisfaction. It's monstrous form towered over the necromancers, the very essence of cold malice radiating from its lifeless eyes. He knew that this creature, once a symbol of power and pride for the dragonflights, would now serve as a weapon of terror for the Scourge. "Ah, what beauty," he mused, stroking the dragon's decayed muzzle. "The humans will tremble before its might."

One of the necromancers stepped forward. "What is our plan, my lord?" he inquired. "When do we deploy this...this abomination?"

The Lich's icy gaze fell upon him. "Patience," Ras hissed. "Mal'Ganis has foreseen this. He knows that the Prince thirsts for victory if it meant saving those dwarves. And so, we shall grant it to him," his eyes gleaming with malice. "A victory that will serve only to tighten the noose around their necks."

The necromancers exchanged glances, understanding dawning on their faces. They had been holding back, preserving their strength for a grander scheme. The creature was not meant for a frontal assault, not yet. "When the humans believe they have triumphed," Ras continued, "they will realize their error much sooner than expected."

The necromancer nodded, his eyes gleaming with fascination at the prospect of such a cunning plan. "And what of Mal'Ganis?" he pressed. "Where is our master?"

Ras's smile grew colder. "He awaits our results," he replied. "He will come in due time."

The ground trembled beneath their feet as the distant booms of the Alliance's bombardment grew closer. Ras's skeletal features twitched with anticipation. "The humans have arrived," he murmured. "Have him prepared, now." he ordered his necromancers. The undead spellcasters redoubled their efforts, their incantations weaving around the creature like a sinister web.

Jaina, knew that she had to act swiftly. She couldn't face this alone, and her mana was dangerously low after her covert reconnaissance. She retreated from the cavern. The cold wind stung her face as she emerged into the light, the chaos of battle unfolding before her.

Her gaze searched for Falric, needing to warn him as soon as possible. She spotted his distinctive blue tabard amidst the chaos of the clashing forces, banners of Lordaeron snapping in the breeze.

Ignoring the artillery and meteor-like projectiles raining down on the undead base, Jaina sprinted through the tumultuous battlefield with unmatched agility, her eyes focused on Falric's unmistakable blue tabard. Each step brought her closer to the human and dwarf lines, her breath coming in quick gasps as she dodged the deadly rain of mortar and artillery fire from the Siege Engines. It was chaotic, but it was needed.

Finally, she reached the edge of the fray and took a deep breath, gathering her waning magical reserves. With a flick of her wrist, she cast her invisibility spell. Falric was nearby, barking orders and rallying his troops. She approached him, her hand reaching out to grab his armor.

"Falric!" she whispered urgently, her voice barely audible over the din of battle. "I need to talk to you. Now!"

The captain's eyes widened in surprise, but he recognized the urgency in her tone. He nodded, and together they retreated to a small, secluded area behind the lines. "Lady Jaina?", he whispered. "What is it?"

Jaina's voice was a harsh whisper that cut through the din of the ongoing battle. "Falric, you have to tell Arthas and the others to pull back," she urged, her eyes filled with the gravity of her discovery. Falric's gaze snapped to hers, his surprise quickly morphing into concern.

"What do you mean?" he demanded in an equally concerned tone.

"They wanted them to come," Jaina replied, her words coming out in a rush. "They've... they've found a way to corrupt the very essence of the dragons. They have what they call a Frost Wyrm. It's being held back, biding its time until you and the others are lured into their trap."

Falric's eyes grew wide with shock. "A dragon?" he repeated, incredulous. "But how is that possible?"

"Necromancy and whatever twisted experiments," Jaina said, her expression grim. "I saw it myself. They had twisted the soul of a fallen blue dragon into a weapon of the Scourge. They intend to use it as a last resort, when we believe we are close to victory."

The knight's response was swift. "We have to inform the Prince," he said, his voice urgent. "If they've anticipated our arrival, then we're walking into a slaughter."

Jaina nodded with Falric's assessment. But as they turned to leave and warn Arthas, the ground suddenly trembled once more, and the cacophony of battle grew eerily silent. The bombardment from the Siege Engines and mortars had ceased, leaving the frozen landscape eerily quiet. Falric's heart sank as he realized the gravity of the situation. "It's too late," he murmured, his eyes on the horizon where the human and dwarven forces had begun their advance.

Jaina knew that they had to act quickly. "We can't let them walk into this," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with urgency. Falric followed suit, the two of them sprinting through the snow-covered ground, their boots leaving a trail of disturbed powder in their wake.

As theg approach, they could see Arthas, Muradin, Marwyn, and Baelgun had begun their march along with their men.

"Your Highness!" Falric called out, his voice carrying over the field. Arthas looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of Jaina.

"Jaina?" Arthas exclaimed, his voice filled with astonishment and of urgency at the sight of her. He did not want her to be in Northrend as he had told her back at Lordaeron. "How did you get here?"

"That doesn't matter, Arthas!" Jaina called out, her breath coming in white clouds in the frosty air. The prince and his comrades halted, their eyes questioning as they turned to face her. "Mal'Ganis has lured you here," she continued, her voice carrying the weight of her words. "He's luring you into a trap."

Arthas's eyes searched hers, a flicker of doubt and concern crossing his face. "How do you know this?" he demanded.

"I overheard the necromancers," Jaina panted, her eyes flicking to the horizon, where the Scourge forces were beginning to converge. "They've been preparing for you, waiting for the right moment to unleash-"

The sudden tremor was followed by a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very air around them. From the mouth of the cavern emerged a monstrosity that Jaina had only heard whispered about in her darkest nightmares: a creature of twisted bone and decay, the very essence of cold malice given form. The creature's wings unfurled with a sound like crackling ice, blotting out the sky as it took to the air. Jaina's words of warning hung unspoken in the air, her eyes wide with fear as the creature's gaze swept over the battlefield, seeking prey.

The Frost Wyrm dove, unleashing a frozen maelstrom that engulfed a knot of Alliance soldiers, their cries for mercy cut off as they were encased in a prison of solid ice. The ground cracked and shuddered beneath its weight as it landed. Arthas's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the creature as he assessed the situation with the cold calculation of a seasoned warrior.

"Fall back!" he bellowed, his command echoing through the chaos. "Reform into groups and spread out! Do not engage the creature directly!" His men scurried to comply, their discipline holding firm despite their terror. Falric's voice joined his, his own orders sharp and precise as he rallied his knights.

Arthas gritted his teeth Frost Wyrm continued its rampage, his mind racing back to his darkest days as the Lich King's champion. The beast was a grim reminder of the power he had once wielded and the horrors he had unleashed upon the world. He knew firsthand the sheer might of such a creature and even created one himself through Saphiron. And right now, he wasn't sure as to how to defeat it with what they have.

Marwyn's eyes never left the monstrous creature, his expression a mix of horror and fascination. He swallowed hard and found his voice, turning to Arthas. "How do we bring it down?" he asked urgently.

Arthas's gaze remained fixed on the Frost Wyrm, his mind racing with strategies and tactics. "Muradin," he called out, "Your riflemen, do they have any incendiary powder?"

Muradin nodded grimly. "Aye, we do," he replied. "But most of it's back at the Siege Engines."

"We'll be needing that," Arthas said decisively. "It could be enough to at least damage the creature's frame, slow it down." He wasn't sure if it would work. But any option would do for now

Falric nodded in agreement. "We must buy ourselves some time," he said, his eyes scanning the battlefield for an opening.

Turning to Jaina, Arthas's eyes searched hers for a brief moment. "Can you distract it?" he asked, his voice low and urgent. "Keep it away from the others while we retrieve the incendiary rounds?"

Jaina nodded firmly, staff at the ready. "I'll do what I can," she said, her voice steady despite the fear that clawed at her insides.

The prince nodded, his eyes flickering with gratitude. "Good," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. "Falric, take a squad and head back to the Siege Engines. Bring as much as you can carry," he ordered. "We'll hold them off here."

Falric didn't waste another second. He gathered a group of knights and riflemen and set off at a sprint, their boots digging into the icy ground as they retreated from the creature's path. Muradin and Marwyn remained, their eyes never leaving the Frost Wyrm.

"I'll keep it occupied," Jaina shouted over the din of battle, her eyes flashing with determination. "But be quick!"

She felt a hand placed on her shoulder, finding Arthas' cautious but determined gaze. "You won't be doing it alone.", he stated.

Jaina nodded, her eyes flickering with a mix of relief and concern. "Thank you," she called out to Arthas, her voice carrying over the din of battle. "But we have to be careful."

Arthas nodded gravely, his gaze never leaving the Frost Wyrm as it rampaged through the Alliance lines. "We will," he assured her. "Now, let's move!"

Together, the two sprinted towards the creature. As they approached, Jaina's fingertips began to crackle with fiery energy. She sent a barrage of fireballs at the creature, each one hitting its mark with precision. The Frost Wyrm roared in fury, its eyes glowing with a malevolent blue light as it turned to face the new threat.

Arthas, his war hammer held high, invoked the Holy Light. The energy surged around him, burning away the shadows and freezing mist that clung to the creature. With every swing of his weapon, he released bolts of searing light that struck the Frost Wyrm. The creature recoiled from the unexpected onslaught, its icy armor crackling and breaking under the hammer's relentless blows.

The Frost Wyrm, feeling the searing heat of Jaina's flames and the hammering might of Arthas's holy blows, bellowed with fury. Its monstrous eyes narrowed, focusing on the two humans. The creature reared back its head, its maw opening to unleash a deadly blast of energy.

The sorceress saw it. Without missing a beat, she raised her staff high and began to chant an incantation. The air around her grew hot, and a fiery aura enveloped her as she drew upon theessence of the fire elementals. The beam of frost grew closer, a stark contrast to the inferno she had conjured.

As the icy projectile was about to collide with the duo, Jaina released a torrent of flames that met its frosty counterpart head-on. The clash was explosive, the two opposing forces of nature colliding in a spectacle of light and sound that dwarfed even the tumult of the ongoing battle. For a moment, it seemed as if the very fabric of the air was being torn apart by the sheer power of the elemental conflict. The dwarven riflemen, and the knights of Lordaeron watched in awe as the two energies danced in a fiery ballet, swirling and twisting around one another, neither giving ground.

Jaina felt the crushing pressure of the creature's attack pushing against her own. But then, a sudden surge of warmth and power flooded her, and she realized that Arthas had stepped forward, his hand clasping hers. His eyes, normally filled with a fiery determination, were now suffused with the soft glow of the Light as it helped empower her attack. With a roar of defiance, she channeled the last of her strength into the spell, and the two streams of power met in a clash of elemental fury. The blue beam shuddered and then shattered into a million shimmering ice crystals, dissipating into the air like a fleeting breath of winter. The Frost Wyrm reeled back, momentarily stunned by the display of unyielding will and power.

The creature, took to the skies once more, seeking to escape the flaming embrace that had nearly claimed it. But Falric's timely arrival brought forth a new wave of hope. The dwarven riflemen, under Muradin's command, had managed to salvage two of their siege engines from the wreckage. With a fierce determination etched into their faces, they loaded and aimed them at the retreating behemoth.

The riflemen took a collective breath and pulled their triggers. A volley of flaming arcs shot through the sky, the fiery projectiles arcing to the sky. The first few shots fell short, but with each subsequent shot, the distance narrowed. The Frost Wyrm bellowed in pain as the first round of incendiary fire struck its body, the icy scales crackling and melting away like shards of glass under the intense heat. The creature's movements grew erratic, its once majestic flight now a desperate struggle to stay aloft.

The Frost Wyrm's roars grew more frantic as the incendiary roundsrained down upon it, the once-beautiful creature now a monstrous visage of pain and dwarven riflemen loaded another round of fiery ammo and took aim. This time, their shots found their mark. The final volley struck the Frost Wyrm with the force of a meteor, blowing off one of its wings and sending it plummeting towards the ground with a thunderous impact. The creature's cry of agony pierced the air, a sound that would haunt the nightmares of the soldiers for the rest of their lives.

Arthas and Jaina watched as the beast fell. The creature was still alive. The prince took a step forward, his war hammer glowing with the power of the Holy Light. He leaped over the shattered ice and debris. The creature attempted to rise, its tail whipping wildly. As it righted itself, it opened its maw, preparing to unleash another blast of freezing energy. But Arthas was quicker, charging at the Frost Wyrm with a speed that belied his heavy armor. He swung his hammer in a powerful arc, aiming at the skull, abruptly stopping it's attack.

"Jaina!" Arthas shouted, pointing at the exposed blue core of the Frost Wyrm. It was a pulsing, crystalline center of its power. She nodded, and with a deep breath, Jaina focused her energies, her eyes burning with the intensity of the fire she was about to unleash. The core pulsed with each agonized breath the creature took, taunting them with its unyielding resilience.

Jaina took aim, her staff glowing a fiery orange. She could feel the power building, coalescing into a single, focused point at the tip of her weapon. The Frost Wyrm, though grievously injured, still managed to fix its gaze upon her. Arthas stepped aside, granting her a clear shot, his own weapon held at the ready.

The moment stretched into an eternity as Jaina channeled her power. Then she released the spell. A bolt of pure, searing flame shot forth from her staff, a crimson streak that pierced the heart of the Frost Wyrm's core. The creature's eyes widened in agony as the bolt struck true, the core exploding in a burst of light that momentarily blinded all who bore witness. The explosion sent a shockwave through the surrounding ice, shattering it into a million shards that glinted in the sunlight, reflecting the fiery demise of the creature.

The Frost Wyrm let out one final, desperate roar before it went still, its body convulsing once and then falling silent. The air grew cold again, the warmth of the battle dissipating as quickly as it had come. The creature lay before them, defeated.

The aftermath of the battle was a stark reminder of the price paid for victory. The survivors of the Alliance forces gathered around the lifeless form of the Frost Wyrm, feeling disheartened of the comrades they lost. The air grew still, the only sounds being the distant clanging of weapons and the pained gasps of the injured. Arthas' gaze swept over the carnage before settling on Jaina, whose face was a mask of determination and exhaustion.

He had told her stay back at Stratholme. For her own safety and his own desire for her not to see him.

And yet, she persisted and went with him anyway.

Arthas could see the unyielding resolve in Jaina's eyes as she stared back at him, the warmth of her concern stark against the icy backdrop of the battlefield. She had always been one to press for answers, and he knew that now was not the time to push her aside.

Back at the camp...

The air around them stiffened as Jaina and Arthas stared at one another tensely. The Prince could only find the determined and frustrated look at the Archmage was giving him. He swallowed hard, seeing that she wouldn't be deterred this time. But he was adamant at not involving her in any way and wanted her away from Mal'Ganis at all costs.

The men, excluding Falric, looked confused as their Prince did not appear to appreciate the Archmage's presence despite her assistance from earlier. As did Muradin and the dwarves, not sure what to make out with this.

"You shouldn't be here, Jaina...", Arthas said through gritted teeth as he looked at the Archmage's unyielding spirit. "This isn't where you're supposed to go."

Jaina glared at his attempt to push her away again. "I'm here to make sure you didn't do anything reckless, Arthas.", the Sorceress retorted, trying her best to see through his fears and her doubts.

Arthas stepped around Jaina, his boots crunching in the snow as he made his way back to the tent. "I'll have a ship to bring you back to Lordaeron.", he simply stated "Uther or Antonidas need you back home more than I do."

"You know very well that I could easily teleport back here, Arthas", Jaina retorted in frustration.

"This isn't your fight, Jaina," Arthas said firmly, his jaw set as he walked past her, his eyes reflecting a mix of pain and determination. "I have to stop Mal'Ganis and the Scourge, and that is all that matters."

Jaina stepped closer to him, her eyes flashing with a fierce resolve that matched his own. "I'm not letting you do this on your own, Arthas!"

Arthas stopped in his tracks, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and pain. He whirled around to face her. "You don't get it, Jaina," he growled, the words cutting through the cold air like a knife.

"Get what, Arthas?" she shot back, her voice filled with frustration and a hint of hurt. "What you were hiding? What troubled you? You never trusted me to know what they even are!"

He looked back at her, feeling the inner turmoil within building up as he tried to speak. "That's not it, Jaina-"

It was there, she finally had enough. "THEN WHAT WAS IT THEN?!", Jaina finally shouted at him.

The feeling, was mutual, and he shouted back. "I DON'T WANT TO BE A MONSTER AGAIN!"

The words hung in the air, the weight of his anguish palpable in the sudden silence that enveloped the camp. Jaina's eyes widened in shock at his outburst, her hand reaching out to him in a gesture of comfort that was as much for herself as it was for him. Falric and the others watched, stunned by the raw emotion on the Prince's face—an emotion they had never seen from him before.

"Arthas," she whispered, her voice trembling with concern. "How could you..."

Arthas felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he realized what he had just admitted to Jaina. He had never intended to reveal his fears so openly, but the words had spilled from his lips like a dam breaking under the weight of his guilt. He turned away from her, unable to face the horror that he knew would be reflected in her eyes. "I never wanted you to see me like this," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "I..." He took a deep, ragged breath, his fists clenching at his sides.

Jaina stepped closer, her hand reaching out tentatively to touch his armored shoulder. "Arthas," she said softly, her voice filled with a mix of shock and sadness. "Tell me what's going on. I can help you, I swear it."

But the prince was already shaking his head. "You can't," he said, the finality in his tone cutting like a dagger. "This is something I have to do myself. For your own sake, for everyone's sake, I can't have you here beside me."

Jaina felt the warmth of his armor under her hand and knew that he was right. There was something dark and dangerous in Northrend that she didn't fully understand, and she feared for him. But she also knew that she couldn't just leave him to his fate. "Arthas," she begged, her voice breaking. "I can't just leave you here."

Arthas took a step away from Jaina. The torment of his past life was a festering wound that had just been exposed to the harsh light of day, and he could not bear to look into her eyes and see the betrayal that would surely be reflected there. "I can't let you come with me, Jaina," he said, his voice strained with emotion. "What I have to deal with, it's not something that you should ever have to see."

Jaina's eyes searched his, filled with confusion and pain. "What are you talking about?" she pleaded, her voice trembling. "You can't just shut me out like this!"

The prince's gaze fell to the ground. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders heaving beneath his armor. "You won't see me the same way we had as kids."

"That's not true, Arthas," Jaina insisted, reaching out to grasp his hand. "I've seen the best and the worst of you. And I still believe in you. In the personI know you are."

With a heavy heart, Arthas pulled his hand away from hers, his eyes avoiding hers. "Jaina," he said, his voice a whisper of torment. "Seeing you hurt because of me is the last thing I wanted to do. And if you knew what I truly am, what I've become...you'd hate me as much as I hate myself." He took another step back, the snow crunching under his boots as he tried to maintain his composure.

Her eyes filled with unshed tears, Jaina's voice was steady despite the tremor that ran through her. "You don't get to decide that for me, Arthas," she replied firmly. "Whatever it is that you're hiding, I can handle it."

He shook his head, his expression one of deep anguish. "No, you can't," he said, his voice cracking. "You can't handle what I've done. No one can." He turned and strode away from her, his armor clanking with every step that took him closer to the privacy of his tent.

Jaina simply stood there, biting her lip in utter frustration and of anger at how much he had cut her off all this time. She would normally regret doing this, but she'd rather have all her regrets sink to the bottom of the ocean if she would not do this now.

Arthas left her the first time at Heartglen when she tried to know what was troubling him, where he was even close to confessing as to what he was about to say.

He left her a second time at Stratholme when it was clear whatever truth he had hidden was hurting him and how he was adamant in pushing her away.

And now, here in Northrend, he was about to about to do the same for her.

Never again, she told within her inner mind. And she won't let him turn his back on her once more.

The sudden crack of Jaina's staff striking Arthas at the back of his head echoed through the camp, the sound jolting everyone from their silent contemplation. The Prince's armor clattered as he hit the ground, the snow beneath him cushioning the fall slightly. His men, including Muradin, immediately tensed, ready to jump to his aid, but Falric's raised his hand, signalling all of them to stop at their tracks.

The camp stood still in shock as Jaina dropped her staff and threw herself onto Arthas, pinning him to the ground with surprising strength fueled by her tumultuous emotions. Her right fist rained down on his face, each hit landing with precision and fury. "How could you tell me that I couldn't understand, Arthas?!" she shouted at him, her anger and hurt mixing into a torrent of fury. "After everything that we've been through!?"

The Prince lay beneath her, his eyes closed, not offering any resistance. He took the blows stoically, the armor absorbing much of the impact, but the pain was not what he was feeling at the moment. The emotional torment was what he allowed to happen, as he knew that she had to let out all her pent-up frustrations and fears. "Jaina," he whispered, his voice hoarse and filled with pain. "You don't want to know."

"I have to know!" she screamed back, her fist continuing their assault. "I can't keep watching you like this!"

Tears streamed down Jaina's face as she punched him, her knuckles growing raw. Arthas's silence was deafening, his eyes revealing a deep abyss of guilt and regret. Marwyn and Muradin watched, their expressions a mix of shock and concern, but they knew better than to interfere.

Falric in the meantime, knew this was their chance. A chance to heal the rift or let it widen further. Which is why he allowed this to happen.

Jaina's fists continued to pound against Arthas's unyielding armor, each hit resonating with the depth of her pain and frustration. "You've had us all worried sick, Arthas!" she cried out, her voice hoarse with emotion. "Do you have any idea what you're putting us through?" Her blows grew more desperate, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You can't just keep all of this to yourself! Why won't you let us help you?"

The Prince remained still beneath her, his eyes squeezed shut as the impact of her words hit him harder than her fists ever could. His jaw was clenched tightly, a silent testament to the internal struggle he was enduring. "Jaina," he murmured, his voice strained, "If you knew the truth..."

"I don't care what the truth is!" she interrupted, her voice thick with anger and anguish. "All I know is that you're suffering, and you won't let anyone in!"

Her words hung in the tense silence that had fallen over the camp. Arthas felt a tear slip down his cheek, the coldness of the snow mingling with the heat of his guilt. He knew he had pushed her too far, that he had hurt her with his secrets and his refusal to confide in her. And yet, he could not bring himself to reveal the dark truth that lurked within him, the knowledge that would forever change the way she saw him.

The prince's body remained still, his breathing shallow, as the Archmage continued her verbal and physical onslaught. "I've watched you suffer in silence, watched you push everyone away!" she wailed. "But I can't do it anymore!"

Arthas's chest heaved with each word she spoke, each one a dagger to his soul. He knew he had hurt her, and it was a pain he could never undo.

But Jaina was beyond words of apology. Her fists pummeled his face, leaving his cheeks bruised and his nose bleeding.

Jaina's fist slowed its assault, her strength waning as she stared down at Arthas, his bruised and bloodied face a mirror of her own heartache. "Is it too much to ask for you to trust me?" she sobbed, her eyes searching his. "To let us help you with whatever it is that's causing you so much pain?"

The Prince's eyes finally opened, the pain and regret in them so deep it was like staring into the abyss. He didn't move to push her away, allowing her to continue her desperate pleas. "It's not that I don't trust you, Jaina," he said, his voice a barely audible whisper. "It's that I don't trust myself."

Her grip on his shoulders tightened, the cold metal of his armor digging into her skin. "Then why, Arthas?" she demanded, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and despair.

Arthas took a deep, ragged breath, his eyes searching hers for understanding. "You wouldn't," he said, the words ripping from his chest like a dagger. "No one would."

As Jaina's fists grew weaker, her sobs grew louder, her rage morphing into despair. "You once made me promise, Arthas" she managed through her tears, her voice hoarse from the screams. "I promised I would never turn my back on you, no matter what. Did I ever break that promise?" Each question was a knife to his heart, twisting deeper with every syllable.

Arthas felt the weight of Jaina's words crash down on him like a mountain of ice. Her promise to never leave his side was a beacon of light in the dark abyss of his soul, but also selfish for him to make her promise that to him. Yet, here he was, pushing her away for fear of what she might find if she truly knew the extent of his corruption. The thought of losing her, of watching the disgust and revulsion replace the love in her eyes, was more than he could bear. He knew he was being selfish. But the fear of the truth, the fear of losing her, was a rift that he could not bring himself to cross.

In that moment, his thoughts were a storm.

He recognized the cowardice in his actions, the way he had hidden behind, afraid to face the reality of his past. He had become a coward. A liar.

The fear of becoming the monster that had destroyed so much again and the fear of losing her had driven him to push her away.

He had hoped that by keeping her in the dark, he could protect her from the taint of his own soul.

But as he looked into her eyes, filled with anger and pain, he realized that he had only hurt her more.

His pursuit of power and domination as the Lich King had left a scar on her world, one that she had suffered from. The weight of his guilt and self-loathing was like a millstone around his neck, dragging him down into the depths of his own despair.

Finally, the dam of his resolve cracked, and Arthas spoke, his voice weak and strained. "Jaina..." He paused, his eyes finally meeting hers, filled with a torrent of pain and regret. "If I could, I would have you stay in Lordaeron, if it meant that you wouldn't be hurt by it."

Jaina's sobs slowly subsided, her fists unclenching as she stared down at the prince who had won her heart before. Her eyes searched his bruised and bloodied face, finding a man haunted by a fate that seemed to chase him like a relentless specter. Her breaths grew steady as she knelt beside him, her hand reaching out to gently wipe away the blood trickling from his nose.

"You're not my King, Arthas. I'm not following that command," she said, her voice shaky but determined. "Even if you were."

Arthas' eyes widened. Those were the same words that Uther told him when he ordered him to purge Startholme. And now, Jaina is using them.

"Why?", he weakly asked, almost pleading as if why did she think he was worth her attention and time. "How could you say that?"

Her eyes searched his, a fiery resolve burning in their depths. "Because I'm not leaving you.", she declared in a whisper. "Not this time."

In that moment, Arthas did not feel like a Paladin of Justice or the Lich King who ruled through fear. He is, but a man whose shackles in the heart were broken.

Her unwavering determination to stand by him, even in the face of his own self-loathing and fear, was a stark contrast to the memory of her standing at the gates of Stratholme, her eyes filled with a mix of horror and sorrow as she watched him succumb to the madness that consumed him. The pain of her past abandonment washed over him, a cruel reminder of the man he had become and the chasm he had created between them. Yet, here she was, her hand tenderly brushing the cold snow from his cheek, her gaze unyielding.

In that moment, he was torn between the guilt of the past and the warmth of the present. The memory of her desperation as she pleaded for his sanity in the icy halls of Icecrown Citadel was as vivid as the sting of the cold metal beneath her touch. Her unyielding belief in the goodness that still dwelled within him, was allowed a part of him to try and fight within the prison he had locked himself to.

"Yet, some scars can only be mended when others lend their light to your darkness. In time, you will be made to allow others to help you heal.", the words of the Prophet in their previous conversation at Stratholme came back to him like a ghost.

"I know this as much: a healed scar is preferable to an untreated wound.", Falric's words came back to him as well when they spoke back at the ship. "If she is hurt, then help her heal from it."

He couldn't take it anymore.

His heart pounded as he took in Jaina's fiery resolve. Her words resonated deep within his soul. The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning—his fears had not only isolated him from those he cared for but had also allowed the very darkness he feared to fester. With a trembling hand, he reached up and took hers, feeling the warmth of her skin against his cold, armored gauntlet. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the weight of his secrets almost too much to bear.

He knew he can't do this alone anymore.

He had to face the truth and share the burden of his past with those who had the power to either shatter him or lift him from his despair. Looking into the pools of blue fire that were Jaina's eyes, he saw the love and friendship that had survived the ravages of his corruption. Her unyielding belief in him was a beacon in the dark, and it was time for him to step into the light.

Arthas closed his eyes. "Alright then...", he whispered to her.

Jaina's eyes widened slightly, unsure of what she had just heard. "What?", she asked.

Arthas took a moment to compose himself. His eyes searched Jaina's, finding the warmth and understanding that he had feared was lost to him forever. He nodded weakly, the admission of his folly a heavy burden lifted from his soul. "You're right, Jaina," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I've been a fool to push you away, when I do need people to help me."

The mage looked at him in shock, her hand still on his cheek, feeling the coldness of his skin beneath his armor.

The Prince took a deep, shaky breath, the words feeling like shards of ice leaving his mouth. "I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have kept it from you. I was afraid... afraid of what you'd think of me, of what everyone would think. But I see now, that I can't bear it alone."

He spoke again. "I'm sorry, Jaina," Arthas began, his voice cracking. "You're right, you do deserve to know the truth. But it's something...that isn't easily shared," he paused, swallowing hard. "It's not something I can share with you now. Not here. Not when we're so close to ending this." He looked into her eyes, searching for a spark of understanding. "But once Mal'Ganis and the rest are dealt with," he promised, "I will tell you everything."

The archmage was taken aback by the sudden shift in Arthas's demeanor. She had seen him stoic, determined, and even cold, but never had she seen him so...vulnerable. Her hand hovered over his face, unsure of what to do. "You do?" she asked, her voice shaky.

She studied Arthas's bruised and bloodied face, his eyes brimming with a sincerity that she hadn't seen in what felt like an eternity. Her hand, still hovering over his cheek, trembled slightly as she contemplated his promise. The doubt that had been festering in her heart was now at war with the hope that he was finally willing to confide in her.

The prince nodded, his expression a mix of pain and relief. "I am," he assured her, his voice a raspy whisper. "I can't keep it from you any longer." He took a shuddering breath, his eyes never leaving hers. "If it would only hurt you more, then I don''t want to do it anymore."

Jaina's hand reached out, her fingertips brushing against his skin as if to confirm he was real, that this moment was not a figment of her desperate imagination.

Arthas took her hand in his, his grip firm but gentle, feeling the warmth of her skin against his gauntlet. "Jaina," he said with a solemnity that seemed to silence the very wind around them. He paused, his eyes searching hers for any signs of doubt or fear. "But if there's one person in this world I trust to understand, it would be you. And now, I need your help. More than ever"

Jaina's eyes searched his, the hurt and anger slowly giving way to a quiet acceptance. She knew Arthas too well to doubt his sincerity in this moment.

With a heavy heart, Jaina nodded. "Alright, Arthas," she said, her voice filled with a mix of pain and hope. "If you believe that telling me will help, then I'll be here to listen, through and through." Her eyes searched his, looking for any sign of doubt. "But you have to promise something in return."

His response was immediate. "Anything."

Her ocean blue eyes met his green ones with such warmth. "You'll never push me away again," she said firmly with finality. "That's all I ask from you."

Arthas's grip on her hand tightened slightly as he met her gaze, the depth of his regret and pain reflected in his eyes. "I promise," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I'll never turn you away again, Jaina."

Jaina's touch was tender, her thumbs tracing the contours of his cheekbones, feeling the warmth of his skin. Arthas closed his eyes, leaning into her embrace, his body momentarily forgetting the pain of his bruised flesh. "I promise," he murmured to her again, "I'll never turn you away again."

Their foreheads pressed together, the cold air of the night seemingly forgotten, as the warmth of their bond surged between them. Jaina felt the tremor of his sigh against her skin, a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand regrets and fears. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "For trusting me."

Falric, who had been standing a few paces away, watching the scene unfold with a heavy heart, now allowed himself a small smile. The sight of the two finally beginning to heal the rift that had grown between them filled him with a sense of pride and hope. He knew the journey ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but if Arthas could find solace in Jaina's presence, perhaps there was a chance after all.

The two guards, their faces a picture of shock at the sight of their prince on the ground, cautiously approached Arthas and Jaina. One spoke in a hushed tone, "Your Highness, shall we...?"

Arthas lifted a hand, cutting the guard off. "It's alright," he assured them. "It was just... a misunderstanding." The guards exchanged glances, unsure of what to make of the situation, but they knew better than to question the prince's orders.

Jaina offered her hand to help him up, and after a moment of hesitation, Arthas took it, allowing her to pull him to his feet. His knees wobbled slightly, a side effect of the beating and his own inner turmoil. She searched his face, the bruises and blood stark against the stark moonlight, her heart aching at the sight of his pain.

"Come on," she suggested gently, her voice carrying the weight of their newfound understanding. "I'll make sure you're alright."

He nodded, leaning on her slightly for support. They walked in silence, each step echoing the gravity of their conversation. As they reached the tent, Arthas paused, his hand on the flap, looking back at her. "Thank you, Jaina," he murmured, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and hope.

The archmage offered a small smile, but she felt the relief brought to her. "You're welcome, Arthas," she replied, her voice a balm to his weary soul.

Muradin stared at the retreating figures of Arthas and Jaina, his expression a comical mix of astonishment and bewilderment. He turned to Falric, his voice a gruff whisper, "Did you see that, lad? Did I just see the mighty Arthas get his arse handed to him by a lass half his size?" Falric couldn't help but chuckle.

"Aye, Muradin," Falric replied, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "It seems our Prince has more layers than an onion, doesn't it?"

The dwarf grunted in amusement. "I've seen him take on creatures bigger than him and the undead, but never knew he was so... fragile," he said, his words teasing yet filled with affection.

Falric clapped Muradin on the shoulder, his smile growing wider. "But it's not fragility," he said, his tone light despite the gravity of the situation. "It's the strength of his heart, making room for those he cares for. Besides, everyone needs to be knocked down a peg or two, especially if it's by someone they hold dear."

Muradin raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting with curiosity. "You knew this would happen," he accused, his voice gruff yet laced with a hint of amusement. "Why did you let the wee lass kick his ass?"

Falric's smile grew a tad wider, his eyes gleaming with a knowing glint. "Sometimes, the best way to heal a wound is to let it bleed," he replied, his gaze flickering to the prince and archmage. "Their bond is strong. This was a step in the right direction, if a painful one."

The captain further added. "I had a feeling that some things needed to be said, and better they be said in private," he said with a knowing look. "And it seems our Prince found his voice again."

The dwarf chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a sly one, Falric," he said, a note of admiration in his voice. "But I suppose that's why you're the Prince's right hand."

Chapter Text

Back at Northrend....

Inside the tent, Jaina's carefully tended to Arthas' bruises all the while bearing a concerned look on her face. Every time she applied the alcohol-dipped cloth against his bruises was often follows by a soft, "I'm sorry" from her. Arthas looked up at her with both understanding and mild amusement. "It's alright, Jaina," he gently replied to her. "I've felt worse."

Jaina couldn't help but snort at that. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she asked in a playful tone in replu.

"Well, it's true," Arthas replied with a half-smile, wincing slightly as she applied a healing salve to a particularly nasty gash on his face. "And you know as well as anyone, anger is a powerful force. And it needs an outlet a times."

Jaina looked at him, feeling a bit guilty of her earlier assault. "I didn't mean to hit you so hard," she worriedly whispered. "But I had to make you see that you can't keep pushing everyone away when you do need them."

"I suppose you're right.", he sighed, feeling the slight sting onto his wounds. "But I do hope father or Uther never find out about this."

Jaina couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Well, I wouldn't recommend arguing with an angry archmage," she teased. "But maybe it's just what you needed." Arthas winced again as she applied the last bit of salve to a bruise.

As she finished her work, she took a step back to look at him. The bruises were already fading already. Arthas looked up at her with a small smile. "Thank you, Jaina," he gratefully said to her.

The archmage's cheeks flushed slightly, and she shrugged off his thanks. "It's what friends do," she quipped. "And we're friends, aren't we?"

"Always," he assured her with a genuine smile. And I hope we can still remain the way we were...if you knew..., he somberly thought.

The Prince wondered for a moment. "Jaina," Arthas called out to her, "How did you even get here? To Northrend, I mean." He sat up slightly. "It's not exactly similar like traveling from Kul'tiras to Lordaeron."

Jaina turned to him, looking determined despite being tired. "I had to find you," she replied. "To make sure you didn't do anything that you wouldn't come back from." She took a moment to breathe. "After our...falling out back at the docks, I couldn't just sit back at Lordaeron and do nothing. I had to find a way to help."

Arthas leaned in to listen. "I stowed away on one of the ships bound for Northrend back at Stratholme," she continued, remembering the cramped, cold storage room she'd called home for the past weeks. "It was a small vessel, mostly carrying supplies and a few soldiers. I managed to sneak in via teleportation, and I've been hiding ever since."

Arthas' hand reached up to gently touch the side of her face. "Jaina, you didn't," he whispered, not wanting to imagine the lengths she went through for his safety.

"It wasn't easy," she admitted. "I had to keep myself invisible most of the time. I'd only come out when everyone was asleep or distracted to grab food and water. It was...claustrophobic. Certainly not the feeling I had when I was aboard father's ships back at Kul'tiras."

"You went through all of it, why?" Arthas asked her with concern. "Why go through all this trouble?"

He looked to find her determination aimed at him. "Because I told you," she reiterated. "I'm not leaving you until I'm sure you've gone through all of it."

The prince looked away for a moment. He felt the warmth of her on his cheek, the gentle pressure of her hand a stark contrast to the cold of his previous life. She had every right to be upset with him, but the fact that she had come so far, endured so much, just to find him...it was more than he could ever ask for.

"Jaina," he began, his voice earnest, "I never meant for you to follow me here. I had hoped that after... after what happened, you would be safe in Lordaeron."

The archmage's look softened at rhat. "I know," she said. "But you're not just my friend, Arthas. You're someone that I could never leave behind. Even after what happened at Winter Veil."

Arthas sighed. He had hurt her that day, and he could very well remember that day to be the day he fumbled her so badly.

"Since Muradin and the others are safe now," she began again, "are we planning to return home to Lordaeron soon?"

Arthas took a moment to think. "Jaina," he sighed, "While saving Muradin was a part of my reason for coming to Northrend, it is not the only work that remains to be done."

The sorceress didn't have to guess what that is. "Frostmourne."

To say he was alarmed is an understatement and he quickly darted to her. "How do you know of Frostmourne?" Arthas asked tentatively, knowing that he never once mentioned the blase to her.

"Falric," she admitted, hoping for him to understand. "When I was keeping an eye on you and your men from afar, Falric mentioned it as something of great interest for you to ask Muradin for help. But he didn't elaborate much on its purpose."

Arthas looked down for a moment, but he knew he had to give her some idea as to why. "It's an artifact," he explained to her, "One that could change the world if falls to someone else." He paused, his gaze drifting to the flickering candlelight. "And it seems that the Scourge, led by Mal'Ganis, have set their sights on it."

Making up that latter reason was needed, even if it wasn't true; they want him to find it. "Why do they want it?" she asked in curiosity

"It's s power is... significant," he said, carefully choosing his words. "But I'll explain all of it once we manage to find it."

The sorceress was concerned as to how apprehensive Arthas had become, but knew better than to press on the issue and she only nodded in response. "Did...Falric knew all along that you were here at Northrend?", Arthas asked of her.

Jaina nodded with a small smile. "Yes, he did," she confirmed. "But I swore him to secrecy. I didn't want to be a burden or distraction."

Arthas couldn't help but chuckle softly at that. "Well, it seems I've got quite the knack for attracting stowaways," he quipped. "That would explain as to why some of the men were complaining of the leftovers being missing."

He spoke again, looking at her softly. "What did Falric tell you?", he asked.

Jaina looked down at their joined hands, softly gripping his hand. "Falric... he knew I was worried," she reluctantly began. "He told me that you had talked to him during the voyage. That you were afraid. Afraid of several things. And that you're..."

Arthas' looked outside for a moment. "Yes," he regretfully said. "I was... I didn't want to hurt you in any way...and what could happen in what I am going to do here".

"But Arthas," she reasoned out firmly with pity and hope, "I can handle myself. I'm an Archmage from the Kirin Tor, remember?"

Of course she'd say that..., Arthas thought. "But...wouldn't you be afraid on what I might do?"

She never wavered. "I don't fear you," she said simply. "I fear for you. And I fear on what would happen if you kept insisting that you could do everything by yourself..."

Again she was right. The reason why he pushed her away before was because he always felt he need to do it alone. The same thing applied when he first came to Northrend before. And look where that got him.

The tent was silent for a moment. "Falric told me the same," he finally said after a deep breath. "He said that I needed to be honest with you, that it was the only way we could move forward."

She nodded solemnly at him not moving her gaze away from him. "He's right," she said. "I want to help you, Arthas. I really do."

Arthas took her hand in his. "And I you, Jaina," he replied as he expressed his hope and determination. "If anything bad comes of this... I want you to know that I'll do everything in my power to help you. To help all of them."

"Arthas," she looked at him straight to the eye, being hopeful and full of assurance to him, "you're not alone. Not anymore."

Their hands remained intertwined as they remained silent in their camaraderie. No words were spoken. As there was no need to.

The next morning, Falric and Baelgun stood outside the tent, their breaths misting in the cold air as they discussed the previous night's victory. The human captain leaned against a wooden post, his eyes squinting as he looked into the distance.

"Do you think this is truly over?" he asked his dwarf counterpart thoughtfully. "The Scourge doesn't just retreat after one defeat."

Baelgun, ever the pragmatic one, took a swig from his flask, the amber liquid glinting in the early light. "Aye," he agreed, "but we've dealt them a blow they won't soon forget. And with any luck, it'll give us the time we need to figure out our next move."

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the urgent footsteps of one of their men. "Sirs," he panted, "You need to see this." Falric and Baelgun exchanged a glance before following the man to the top of a nearby ridge. There, they were handed a spyglass where Falric took it first, his gaze following the line that the man indicated. His breath hitched in his throat as he saw the horizon stretching before them, a sea of decay and malevolence marching inexorably closer.

Falric's felt his heart stol as he identified the twisted forms of Ghouls and the monstrous silhouettes of Abominations. The skies were dotted with the sinister shapes of Gargoyles. And at the center of the advancing army, are of Meat Wagons ready to batter their vulnerable outpost with what they have.

"By the light," he murmured in shock. "It's... it's an entire undead legion. This is no mere patrol. This is a full-scale assault."

Baelgun took note of this and had taken the spyglass from him. "Larger than either of us have ever seen before.", he grimly commented before he gave the telescope back to the scout and patted Falric in the back. "Well, good luck lad! You're gonna need it!", he said before turning around and beginning to walk away, to Falric's shock and disbelief.

"Baelgun!", he exclaimed in outrage.

The dwarf turned around immediately. "I'm just messing with ya, lad.", he then turned to the camp and shouted with all the strength his lungs could handle. "SOUND THE ALARM AND READY THE TRAPS! WE GOT COMPANY!"

The urgent cry of the alarm pierced the crisp Northrend air, sending the camp into a frenzy of activity. Falric burst into the tent where Arthas, Jaina, and Muradin were deep in conversation. "My prince," he urgently cried out, "We have an incoming undead horde, and by the looks of it, it's larger than any we've faced before."

Arthas' response was immediate as he pushed himself to his feet, closely followed behind by Jaina and Muradin as they watched the incoming horde from a distance. Surely enough, it was nothing that they ever seen.

Jaina's eyes widened as she took a good look herself. "Arthas," she said, her voice trembling, "this is beyond anything we encountered at Heartglen."

Muradin agreed with her after taking a good look through the spyglass "Aye. We'd be overrun in minutes if we tried to face this with brute strength alone."

At this point, they can't exactly head on to confront them nor they could hold their positions. With what remained of their forces and the overwhelming tide of the Scourge, victory seemed very unlikely.

"Falric," Arthas called out to his right hand, "I want our men to evacuate to the ships immediately. We will not be able to hold our positions here."

The captain complied without question. "As you command, my prince," he said, turning to relay the orders.

But there are still two things that Arthas wished to deal with; the destruction of Frostmourne and the death of Mal'Ganis. However, the runeblade's destruction comes first, if it meant to rob Ner'zhul of any advantage he could gain from it.

Sparing his men first from being turned into the undead is paramount if they're going to rob the Scourge of any additional numbers. And if Mal'Ganis is leading the army from the front, then they have a window to pursue the runeblade while he's preoccupied.

"Muradin," Arthas turned to his friend and mentor, "We have to find Frostmourne before they're upon us. If we can claim it, it may grant us the edge we need to hold them at bay."

Muradin's eyes narrowed at his urgency. "Frostmourne?" he asked.

"Yes," Arthas confirmed. "If its legends were true, then it should help us turn the tide. And if we don't act now, Mal'Ganis would use to create minions out of our corpses."

He had to make up that last part, but he could not reveal to them immediately as to what it could do. "But what about the others?"

"Marwyn and Baelgun will help Falric in evacuating our men to the ships.", the Prince replied. "If we don't do this now, we'll never will nor we live to see another day."

Muradin took a moment to think, but a promise was a promise. "If you say it's the key to victory, I'll help you find it," the dwarf replied.

Jaina, though puzzled by the sudden emphasis of Frostmourne, chose to come with him. "I'll come with you," she offered. "We can assume that there are incantations needed, and if it goes well or the opposite, I can teleport us back to safety before they could reach us."

Arthas nodded with gratitude. "Thank you," the Prince replied, setting himself up. "Let's go."

A few moments later, Muradin, armed with a map and a strange glowing object, and Jaina joined Arthas. The Sorceress mouth was etched in a frown and her eyes were unhappy, but her body was straight. She was worried on how urgent he was at seeking out the artifact, but she chose to trust her instincts and await whatever answers he may provide once they had arrived.

But at every second passed, she couldn't help but feel really at edge at what lies before them.

Muradin barked out directions as he alternately peered at his map and at the glowing object that seemed to pulse erratically. They moved as quickly as possible through the deep snow where he indicated, stopping only occasionally for the briefests of breaks to reassess. The sky darkened as clouds gathered. Snow began to fall, slowing them further.

Arthas began to move automatically. The snow made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. He no longer noticed or cared in which direction he went, simply moving his legs as they followed Muradin's lead.

Time seemed to have no meaning. He could have been moving for minutes or days.

His mind was consumed with thoughts of Frostmourne. Their salvation. Or at least Arthas thought it would be.

True salvation only comes when that wretched runeblade is erased from the face of Azeroth. And to make sure its madness will never bewitch anyone else again.

Muradin and Jaina glanced at one another, both of them were silent as to the Prince's behavior. He had been relatively quiet since they left, his focus was evidently pointed at the artifact that made for an eerie journey.

They only hoped that Captain Falric and the others have manage to secure their men into their ships as soon as possible to prevent any more bloodshed to their ranks. But Jaina was concerned as to how long they would have to wait aboard if the three of them hadn't gone back as they haven't formed a last resort plan as to what will happen if that were the case.

Arthas halted, blinking eyes that were narrowed to slits against the driving snow, their lashes crusted with ice. They stood before the mouth of a cavern, stark and ominous- seeming in the snow-swirled darkness of the gray day. There was some kind of illumination inside, a soft, blue- green radiance he could just barely glimpse. Bone- weary, frozen as he was, anxiety shot through him. He forced his numbed mouth to form words.

"Frostmourne... The end of all of this. Come on!"

The end of all of this...what could he mean?, Jaina thought as the declaration was ominous as it is cryptic. His journey here to Northrend was heavily tied here, but she could not piece out as to why so.

A second wind seemed to take him and he hastened forward, forcing his legs to obey.

"You two!" Muradin's voice brought him up sharply. "So precious a treasure won't be just left sitting around for anyone tae find. We must proceed wi' a bit o' caution."

Arthas and Jaina chafed, but Muradin had more experience in these matters. So they nodded, as Arthas gripped his hammer firmly and Jaina with her staff, and entered warily. The immediate relief from the wind and driving snow heartened him, and they moved deeper into the heart of the cavern.

The illumination he had glimpsed from outside proved to be coming from softly glowing turquoise crystals and veins of ore, embedded in the rock walls, floors, and ceilings themselves. He had heard of such luminescent crystals and was now grateful for the light they provided. "I could feel a surge of magic lingering within these caverns...", Jaina bellowed as she walked closely to the two of them.

"Which means, we're getting close...", Muradin said in reply while Arthas said. He frowned the thought, then pushed it down. It did not matter where light to see by came from, only that it was present.

It was then that they heard the voices. Muradin had been right—they were expected.

The voices were deep, hollow, and cold- sounding, and their words were dire as they floated to Arthas's ears. "Turn back, mortals. Death and darkness are all that await you in this forsaken vault. You shall not pass."

Arthas stiffened. These were the same whispers that warned him before, but he answered back with aggression and disregarded its warnings. It would have been easier to simply state his business as to why he he came for the runeblade. But there is no guarantee that the Guardian would give them immediate access.

Jaina halted. "Arthas," she said in a soft tone, though in this place it seemed to echo endlessly, "Maybe we should listen."

"I know, Jaina." Arthas replied in an equally cautious tone. "If it would go as far as to try and warn us of the danger, then it's more than a reason why we have to do this."

He couldn't tell them. Not yet at least.

Gripping his hammer he hastened forward, rounded a corner—and stopped in his tracks, trying to take in everything at once.

They had found the owners of the icy voices. For a moment, Jaina was reminded of her water elementals that she would call upon in combat. The beings hovered over the cold stone floor of the cavern, made of ice and unnatural essence instead of water, wearing armor that looked as if it had grown of and from them. They had helms, but no faces; gauntlets, weapons and shields, but no arms. Behind them, stood the Prince's sole reason why he had come here to Northrend.

Frostmourne.

It was very tempting to rush past these Guardians and destroy the runeblade with Light's Vengeance right there and now so he could be finally be done with it, especially as the sword is still at its weakest with no souls to empower it. But if it meant Jaina or Muradin being harmed because of his recklessness, then it wouldn't be an option.

The blade was caught in a hovering, jagged chunk of ice, the runes that ran the length of its blade glowing a cool blue. Below it was a dais of some sort, standing on a large gently raised mound that was covered in a dusting of snow. A soft light, coming from somewhere high above where the cavern was open to daylight, shone down on the runeblade. The icy prison hid some details of the sword's shape and form, exaggerated others. It was revealed and concealed at the same time, and all the more tempting, like a new lover imperfectly glimpsed through a gauzy curtain.

Arthas remembered the first time the sword appeared in his dream when he came to Northrend. The sword that had not killed Invincible, but that had brought him back healed and healthy.

Only to become his slave in the afterlife in his rampage on Azeroth in service of Ner'zhul.

The sword did change everything, as Arthas once thought. Only to plunge kingdoms and citizens into chaos.

It was a mistake he could never afford again.

The uncanny elemental spirit drew its icy sword. "Turn away, before it is too late," it intoned.

"Still trying to protect the sword, are you?" Arthas asked him again.

"No." The being's voice rumbled the word. "Trying to protect you from it."

Jaina's eyes widen in alarm. "Arthas...maybe we should turn back...", she suggested, though she prepared to cite an incantation if needed.

"If it were only that simple Jaina...", she looked to find Arthas brandishing Light's Vengeance at the guardians. "If we don't do this now...we'll never have another chance."

For a second, Arthas stared in contempt. Then he shook his head, eyes narrowing in determination. He could not let his anger cloud his judgement as it several times before.

He could never turn away the chance in digging up the seeds before to take root—to truly save everyone this time when he damned them the first time.

He charged, Jaina and Muradin soon followed. The entities converged on them, attacking with their unnatural weapons, but Arthas focused his attention on the leader, the one assigned to guard Frostmourne.

All his pent- up hope, worry, fear, and frustration, he unleashed on the strange protector. Jaina and Muradin did likewise turning to attack the other elemental guardians with both dwarven might and arcane power. His hammer rose and fell, rose and fell, shattering the icy armor as cries of anger were ripped from his throat.

"I know...", Arthas whispered to the dissipating guardian. "Which is why I have to end this before it could even begin..."

With a final agonized sound, like that of the rattle coming from a dying man's throat, the spirit flung up what passed for hands and disappeared. Arthas stood staring, panting, the breath coming from his chilled lips in white puffs.

Then he turned to the runeblade, his eyes narrowing in silent contempt and disdain at the object that started it all for him.

"Here we are," he breathed, aware that his voice was shaking, "Frostmourne."

Arthas looked with hatred as he approached the sealed weapon, minding to keep his distance. "It's...beautiful," Jaina whispered with curiosity at the power she could feel emanating from the ice.

"Aye, but beauty is often the lure of the most dangerous of predators," Muradin gruffly said, feeling an ominous presence in the area.

Jaina took a closer look at the dais. "Wait, I recognized this. It's written in Kalimag—the elemental language," the Sorceress continued. "It's a warning. It says, "Whomsoever takes up this blade shall wield power eternal. Just as the blade rends flesh, so must power scar the spirit."

Both her and the dwarf knew it could only be one thing. "Bloody hell, that blade is cursed!", Muradin exclaimed in alarm. "We need to get out of here!"

Arthas, however, remained still. "I know.", he cryptically replied in a hushed tone. "Which is why I came here, to destroy it while it is still at it's weakest."

Jaina and Muradin exchanged bewildered glances as Arthas spoke with a conviction that was both chilling and eerily familiar. "What do you mean, Arthas?" Jaina asked in concern.

Arthas took a step closer to the ice, his gaze never leaving the runeblade's imprisoned form. "Frostmourne," he began in a heavy and regretful tone, "is not just a weapon. It is the physical manifestation of the Lich King's power. It is a key to his dominion over the Scourge, and an instrument of his will."

Muradin was bewildered as to how Arthas looked so familiar with it. "But why do you know this?" he questioned.

Arthas took a step back, his hand tightening around the haft of his hammer. "The times you've seen me struggle with, the moments where I've pushed us all too hard," he began in a strained tone. "It's because of...my previous mistakes..."

"Previous mistakes?", Jaina echoed, now feeling afraid. What is he talking about?

The prince's expression was a tumult of emotions - pain, anger, and a desperate yearning for redemption. He took a step towards the runeblade. "Mistakes," he murmured, "that changed the course of history. Mistakes that claimed the lives of those I loved and the very soul of our world."

The words were a cryptic riddle, but the intensity in Arthas' voice sent a shiver down Jaina's spine. She knew that he wasn't speaking of mere tactical errors or missteps in judgment. No, these were the sins of a man who had borne witness to the very worst of what Azeroth had to offer.

"You don't understand what it's like to watch everything you love crumble to dust. And be the very hand that brought about its destruction."

Her eyes widened as she remembered the words he had uttered back at Heartglen. Did he...did he wield the runeblade before?

Arthas took a deep breath and held Light's Vengeance high. Then, with a roar that echoed through the cavern, he swung his war hammer with all the strength of his being at the seal holding Frostmourne. The impact was explosive, sending a shockwave through the chamber that sent Jaina and Muradin skidding off their feet. A blinding flash of light filled the space, temporarily blinding them as the very air around them crackled with power.

When their vision cleared, they found Arthas standing before them, his hammer hovering in mid-air as if he had been caught in the very act of delivering a fatal blow. But his strike had not found its mark. Instead, Frostmourne remained untouched; Arthas' hammer had instead ended up in the grip of a massive demonic hand that had appeared from the very shadows of the chamber, its fingers encrusted with amethyst energy. Frostmourne remained sealed in its place, protected by Mal'Ganis.

The Dreadlord, looked at the Prince with contempt and of disdain. "You have chosen unwisely" he sneered. "Young prince."

Chapter Text

With powerful force, the Dreadlord pushed back Light's Vengeance along with its wielder, causing Arthas to be sent back skidding to his feet until Muradin managed to stop him. Without any hesitation, the magic around Jaina began to manifest while Muradin, equally surprised, brandished both his mace and axe, glaring at the Dreadlord who had blocked their path to Frostmourne.

The Dreadlord's form was monstrous, his hoof-like feet, massive wings,two large horns sticking out his head, and enormous build that was covered in armor was imposing as the power of green energy of unknown origin glowed in malice, at least at the point of view of Jaina and Muradin; Arthas knew very well how potent Fel energy is. "It appears he was mistaken of his vision for you, young Princne," Mal'Ganis hissed, clenching his massive hand. "I wonder why he even bothered at seeing you as a worthy candidate to be his champion."

Arthas regained his footing and glared at the Dreadlord for his interference. "My fate is my own to choose, demon." he shot back. "I'd be happy to disappoint Ner'Zhul instead."

It was a name that Jaina never heard of before. But...how did Arthas know of him? And the way he spoke with such anger and hatred, how did he meet this...being in question.

Muradin looked over at the Prince. "What's this about, lad?" he asked of him, sounding apprehensive. "What do you know of him?"

The prince looked over to his companions, and sighed indignantly; now is not the time. "Long story," he replied apprehensively. "Right now, we have a bigger problem to deal with."

Mal'Ganis looked over to the trio with a calculating glare, particularly at Arthas. The plan was always for him to take the runeblade and await its fruitful results. But now that is no longer in the equation, his patience is at an end. "It seems there is no use in keeping you alive any longer.", he bellowed, just as his hand glowed in fel-infused energy.

"Get back!", Arthas roared out in alarm, and Jaina and Muradin immediately recognized that what the Dreadlord intended to do.

Mal'Ganis' hand sent an arc of fel energy where they manifested into a horde of bats hurled at the trio. Jaina immediately up a barrier of shimmering energy, barely holding on as she felt the immense power and output of the attack landed by the Dreadlord. This is nothing like that of the undead or any type of necromancy..., she thought, before she dispelled it once the last of the bats dissipated or had collided to the wall above them.

Just as they regained their bearings, the looked up to find Mal'Ganis descending before them, threatening to crush them beneath his feet that barely gave the trio time to react and get out of the way. The ground violently shook as he slammed down the floor beneath him, the impact sending a wave of force that knocked them back, though this caused Jaina to hit her back against the wall and momentarily knocked her out.

Regaining their bearings, Muradin and Arthas charged ahead, as the dwarf with his mace and axe rigorously struck the Dreadlord in spite of his smaller size. Mal'Ganis glanced behind him, realizing Arthas was about to land an overhead strike with Light's Vengeance. Mal'Ganis whirled and caught the hammer with his hand and threw it at the nearest icy wall, and the Prince along with hit, who groaned in both pain and anger at the attack. The Dreadlord took his attention back to Muradin, catching Muradin's wrist holding his mace. He painfully gripped it, causing Muradin to drop his weapon which allowed Mal'Ganis to catch it with his free hand and struck the the dwarf on his face, sending him flying a few feet away from him and his axe slipping from his grip.

Arthas watched as Mal'Ganis picked up Muradin's axe and poised to throw it at the immobilized dwarf. Without a second to waste, Arthas struck the Dreadlord's back with Light's Vengeance, his aim disrupted as he threw the axe at Muradin, which missed a few inches in hitting his head. Annoyed, Mal'Ganis' claws glowed in green, Fel energy as he swiped his hand down in an attempt to cut down the Prince, who dodged the attack and then another attack through a sideways swipe. Muradin regained his bearings, watching as Arthas was forced into the defensive. He stood up, picking up his mace and axe where he threw his mace at the Dreadlord's back, momentarily stunning him for Arthas to strike him with an upwards blow at his chest.

The Dreadlord staggered back, and his eyes narrowed in annoyance. He raised both his arms for his bracers to parry the incoming strikes from Muradin's axe at the left and Arthas' warhammer at the right. With a powerful grunt, he forcefully sent back the two by freeing his arms from the onslaught. Seeing his chance, Muradin brought both his weapons to bear and struck the ground, but Mal'Ganis evaded them seamlessly and swooped forward to land a powerful knee at Muradin's chest that rendered the dwarf immobile for the time. Arthas, looking as the Dreadlord knocked out his friend and comrade, charged ahead, the light beginning to infuse Light's Vengeance as he poised for another strike at the Dreadlord, who defended himself with both his bracers with such force that spider web-likes cracked beneath the demon's feet. He forced the hammer away from by breaking the lock between them, grabbing Arthas by his collar at the right moment and throwing him next to the dwarf.

Jaina's eyes open slowly from the onslaught. Her body ached, and her eyes widen at the sight of Arthas and Muradin trying to get up to their feet while Mal'Ganis loomed over them with a cold and unimpressed expresion. "Arthas! Muradin!", she called out to them.

The Dreadlord's hand glowed in Fel energy as he prepared to unleash another carrion swarm at them when a Water Elemental came to life and surged forward, its arms reaching out to snatch at Mal'Ganis, who looked at the interloper and allowed his hand to be wrapped by the elemental, where it evaporated into mist when his hand ignited in a green, fiery blaze.

Jaina watched in anger and fear as the water elemental she had conjured dissipated into a fine mist, watching as Mal'Ganis turned his attention to her as he raised his hand, firing a burst of green, flame-like energy that she had never seen before. Acting immediately, Jaina conjured a frosty barrier forming before her just in time to meet the searing blast of fire that shot from the demon's hand. The collision sent a shockwave through the chamber as she struggled to maintain her footing. When the light had dimmed, the barrier remained , but it was becoming obvious that it would not last long when cracks began to form.

Eventually, it buckled under the relentless pressure, shattering into countless shards as the Archmage stumbled backward, watching as Mal'Ganis began to approach her.

If she didn't act now, it would mean her end. Even if she miraculously survived him now.

She raised her staff where a blizzard erupted around the demon. But Mal'Ganis remained unphased as he continued to walk towards her. With a frustrated snarl, she chanced a more direct approach, conjuring a fireball that shot forth from her staff. But the demon swiped the fireball aside with a casual wave of his arm, sending it onto a nearby icy cavern.

"The Kirin Tor have trained mortals like you well", the Dreadlord complimented the mage, raising his hand where Fel energy had augmented it. "You would be a fine addition to the Legion once we are done here."

Looking up from his battered state, Arthas' eyes widened in horror. This was the reason why he wanted to keep Jaina away from Northrend in the first place, because he wanted to keep her out from Mal'Ganis at all costs. And now, his nightmare would become real. "NO!", he roared out.

Ignoring the pain, the Prince pushed himself off the ground and into a sprint, charging Mal'Ganis. He swung Light's Vengeance with all his his strength could hanle, the hammer's head aimed to smite the demon from existence. Mal'Ganis, however, remained eerily calm as he raised his hand to parry the blow. The war hammer met the Dreadlord's palm, the impact sending a shockwave that echoed throughout the chamber, but to everyone's dismay, the Dreadlord remained unscathed.

His other hand snapped out, his massive fingers wrapping around Arthas' wrist with a crushing grip. The prince's eyes bulged with pain as the Dreadlord effortlessly wrenched Light's Vengeance from his grasp. The weapon clattered to the floor, its once-blazing light dimming to a flicker as it lay on the ground harmlessly. Arthas' body was then hurled through the air as if he were a ragdoll, crashing into the icy wall with a sickening crunch, leaving him gasping for breath and his body bruised and broken.

Muradin, fueled by a rage that burned hotter than the fires of the forge, saw red as he watched his prince brought low. With a bellow, he hefted his axe with his one good arm and charged the looming demon. Mal'Ganis, however, remained unfazed and his gaze never leaving the Archmage, who now cautiously backed away against a wall.

He met the dwarf's charge with a grace that belied his monstrous size. He parried the axe with a sweep of his hand. Twisting with unearthly agility, Mal'Ganis caught Muradin's second attack, redirecting the blow to his side. The dwarf's momentum carried him forward, and the demon took full advantage, driving his fist into his ribcage before he slammed his arm down onto Muradin's back, sending the valiant dwarf sprawling to the ground, unconscious.

They have been dealt with accordingly, as he thought. But there is one thing that he has to do to make sure the Legion's plans are still in motion. After all, a pawn can always be replaced. The Dreadlord then turned his gaze back to Arthas, grabbing the prince's leg as he began to drag him closer to the terrifying abyss that loomed at the edge of the cavern.

He glared as he hoisted Arthas closer to the chasm. "You have always spoke of sacrificing for the people you rule, then perhaps it is fitting that it begins here," he taunted.

The Prince's felt the cold breeze of the abyss whispered promises of a cold, final embrace.

He knew that he could not hope to defeat Mal'Ganis in his state. He wasn't even sure if he even could have defeated him, even when he wielded Frostmourne in his previous life as he had no idea on what was going to happen to him. This was his doing. He would die, and Jaina and Muradin would follow surely.

But before Arthas could even think further, Jaina's right hand shot out, her fingertips crackling with an electric blue arcane energy as she struggled to stand, with her other hand clutching onto the icy wall next to her for support. A bolt of lightning lashed forth, wrapping around the Dreadlord's massive form, momentarily halting his advance toward the abyss.

The Dreadlord looked more annoyed of this inconvenience, dropping the Prince from his grip and glared at Jaina as the tendrils of electricity danced and sizzled around him, with the lightning's intensity increasing with every second it remained connected to its target.

Arthas looked at Jaina in his weakened state, looking to find her face burning with a fierce determination to protect her prince. The lightning wrapped around the Dreadlord like a serpent of pure energy, crackling and hissing as it coiled tighter. But it wasn't enough. With a grunt, he freed himself by forcing his arms upwards, causing Jaina to staggered back, panting and weakened. The effort of the spell had drained her, leaving her vulnerable as the Dreadlord turned his full attention back to her.

Arthas felt his heart wrench in his chest as he watched Jaina, her eyes wide with terror, her body trembling with the aftermath of her desperate attempt to save him.

The Dreadlord stared at the Archmage with interest, lowering his guard. "You have shown promise yourself, mortal.", he bellowed with a sense of commendation. "Perhaps more than to any to what we have seen."

"They grow ever more curious about this realm's potential," he rumbled, his gaze shifting from Arthas to Jaina. "It seems that I have found a worthy candidate to replace the prince," he said, his eyes narrowing on the mage. "One who understands the true nature of power."

She did not need any otherworldly knowledge ro realize what he meant. Her voice was unsteady, defiant but firm as she spat, "Never...not in this life or the next." Arthas watched her with a mix of pride and terror, but he was desperately trying to move.

Mal'Ganis, however, seemed amused by this. "As if you have a choice," he coldly replied. "In order for a tool to be remade, it had be broken."

"Let her go, Mal'Ganis!" both the Dreadlord and Jaina hear Arthas roar in desperation, echoing around the cavern. "This is between you and me!"

Mal'Ganis was unimpressed of the display of bravado. "You had your chance to prove your worth, young Prince. And now, it seems, you have failed."

He looked over at the Archmage. "But then, I will make an example of your friend here. Only then, the rest will learn to serve without question."

Jaina's eyes flashed with determination, her hand trembling as she raised her staff once more, a faint blue glow building at its tip but Mal'Ganis took it and threw it aside. leaving her defenseless and at the mercy of the Dreadlord.

Arthas could feel his own world crashing down down before him again. This isn't how it was intended to go. "Take me instead," he pleaded, desperation clawing at his words, but his words fell to deaf ears. A noble gesture, but an idiotic one as he remembered what happened before.

Mal'Ganis's left hand coil around Jaina's throat, and the other glowed with unspeakable energy. Her eyes grew wide with horror as she felt her life force being torn away, being drawn out like water from a parched well when she saw the blue, spectral energy that came from her being siphoned while Muradin lay unconcious, surely becoming the next target to the Dreadlord's wrath. The Prince struggled to stand, his very soul screaming out in pain as he witnessed the woman he cared and loved suffer.

This is all my fault...

His 'second chance', may have nothing been more than a punishment for what he had done in the life before. To see everything he loved turn to dust, even in spite of his attempts to save them.

A punishment...for giving up the Light when it no longer suited him, and hence his choice to pursue Frostmourne to crave his hunger for vengeance. Arthas watched, his heart breaking as he saw Jaina's soul teeter on the edge of oblivion. He had failed her, failed everyone.

He had been prideful, selfish, impulsive, opportunistic even under the guise of vengeance that he deluded himself into thinking it was justice. That, he drove away two of his closest companions out of his own actions. Damned everything that he could see before him, and raised them to be his pawns in his pursuit for power.

He could not bear to watch the only person who still believe in him wither before him. The only one who still saw the good in him in spite of willingly throwing himself into the abyss that promised power and domination. The same person who fought through hell and back to personally see him herself in the icy halls of Icecrown Citadel, in an attempt to try and save him from himself when it was clear that...he was a lost cause.

The moment he cut off his heart...he fully abandoned his humanity for his own purposes. Persisting even now, where he does not even see himself as one after everything he had done.

But because of her unyielding faith in him, he could feel it becoming whole again after he felt the pain he had caused her by pushing her away, and finally yielding to her resolve. Becoming the light within the abyss that he remained wthin.

His fingers crunched the frost beneath him, desperately hoping the Light could still hear him. Hear me, he beseeched. If you still see any good in me, any semblance that I could still atone...please help me save her! Take me instead! Let her live, and damn me to whatever fate you wish!

He wasn't sure what he was doing anymore. He needed to save her, even if it meant dying again, but permanently. But...what else he could do?

His gaze lingered onto the very object he sought to vanquish from the face of Azeroth. The instrument of his own destruction as well as countless others, now hovering above on the cold, hard ground.

He could the whispers again. His whispers. Whispers that he wished to purge from this world so badly. Only together we can end this nightmare...

Frostmourne was indeed powerful. Arthas knew if he took up the weapon again, his soul would be damned for everything to be repeated. The deaths of Falric, Marwyn, his father, Uther, Lordaeron, and countless others...

He would rather die again than let anyone relive the nightmare he brought upon them. And he dies here, then Lordaeron, Quel'thalas, Dalaran and the other Kingdoms will have a better chance in standing firm against the Scourge.

He clenched his fists upon hearing Jaina's breathing becoming faint. Falric and Baelgun had retreated with their men to the ships, but they had not escaped the Dreadlord's wrath. If he was alone...he would gladly order them to leave immediately, to deprive or at least delay the Scourge in rebuilding their army immediately. But Jaina and Muradin remained with him...and they needed Jaina if the others want to survive.

The moment Jaina touches Frostmourne, it would all be over. And Ner'zhul could easily overtake her and claim her body as his own to use once he is freed. And he would be among countless others as mindless minions of the Scourge.

The Orcs and the Night Elves would not be able to handle Archimonde and the Legion without the humans assisting them.

Lose her. Or lose everything...

As Arthas' mind remained resolute in saving her, a comforting sensation began to spread through his body, starting at his chest and radiating outwards. The Light?, he wondered, thinking if it had responded to his desperate pleas.

He remembered. The Light never abandoned anyone who had its blessing. Only those who forsake it do.

He remembered abandoning the Light willingly when it no longer suited him.

Uther had taught him that power itself is neither good or evil. But only in the purpose in where it is used. The Light is merciful as it is unyielding as it demands that he faced his own fears and sins. He remembered that...he had to find another way, if the aftermentioned methods would lead them into the abyss as he had once before.

He knew what to do...but wether or not he would come back as the person he is now is another question by itself.

But if it would mean that he would be able to save her and Muradin from the fate he had once chosen, then he would choose to try.

With a sickening crack, Frostmourne's seal shattered, its glows awaiting for a new master. Mal'Ganis' hand wrapped around hers with a vice-like grip. Despite her fierce resistance, he began to force her trembling fingers towards the weapon. "He has made his choice," he proclaimed. "Embrace the power, or be destroyed by it."

Jaina's eyes grew wild with fear, her body trembling as she fought against the demon's grip. The thoughts of her people, her friends, and the prince she had sworn to protect ran widly. She knew that if she touched the blade, she was certain she would lose herself to whatever clutches Arthas warned them about. With every ounce of strength she had left, she strained against Mal'Ganis, her nails digging into his shadowy flesh as she screamed in defiance.

The whispers grew to a fever pitch in his mind, promising that together they could destroy the demon once and for all.

Such promises were outright lies. And hew knew that.

He forced himself up, his hands reaching over the handle as Jaina helplessly watched. "Arthas, no!", she shouted, hoping to impede him.

With a fierce determination that seemed to outshine the very light wrapped around his arms, Arthas reached out and grasped Frostmourne's hilt. The moment his hand closed around the weapon. The blade thrummed with power and Arthas could hear the whispers once more. Now, we are one. Mal'Ganis' eyes widened in surprise at the sudden change in Arthas's demeanor.

Jaina's eyes widened in horror, her heart racing as she watched the prince claim the weapon that was supposed to be her been her bane. But before she could react, she saw the glow in Arthas' eyes, the green irises becoming engulfed in a brilliant light. 'I am not your weapon...' he bellowed in his mind, his grip tightening around Frostmourne. 'I am my own master.'

He had allowed him to direct his vengeance. Willingly and without question.

But in this moment. He chose to try and his resist.

In that moment, Ner'Zhul felt something unexpected - a sudden, wrenching pull as if he were being torn from the man's soul. The Lich King's grip over his would-be champion was broken, an unfamiliar sensation. The Prince's will could not be broken. He was stunned by the sheer power of Arthas's conviction within his prison, his cold eyes widening slightly in the realization of both the willpower and hope that remained in the man in spite of his attempts to break him spiritually.

You will not have me again. Arthas mentally stated, noth in anger and relief as he felt the Lich King's grip onto him weaken.

Ner'zhul's whispers grew frenzied in his mind in anger and in disbelief. You cannot escape me, boy! the voice howled into his mind. You are mine!

A window presented itself. He could feel Ner'zhul's grip being broken, but only momentarily. In the second attempt, Arthas knew he would not be so patient in claiming his soul. As he allowed him to test his mettle the moment he held Frostmourne the first time.

With a surge ofstrength, Arthas raised his hands urning with the purifying light of the Light. The Light grew brighter, swelling around him like a shield and pushing back the shadow that sought to claim him once more.

The moment his palm touched the cold steel, the world around him seemed to split in two. On one side, the darkness that he called his past. On the other, the warm light that he called the present. The blade quivered in the air, torn between the two opposing forces that now gripped it.

With a roar, Arthas swung Frostmourne with surprising strength. Mal'Ganis had no time to react, releasing his grasp from Jaina to defend himself. The weapon swung an arc through the air to the Dreadlord's chest and demon was thrown off-balance by the sudden attack. A shockwave occured, that sent the creature hurtling backward through the air as he thudded on the icy ground beneath him.

It had also Arthas flying through the air, his grip on Frostmourne slipping away as he crashed to the ground with a thud. The cavern floor trembled beneath him, dust and debris clouding the air. For a terrifying moment, all was silent, except for Jaina's terrified shout. "ARTHAS!"

The Archmage stumbled over to where Arthas lay, dropping to her knees beside him and frantically searching for any sigh of life "Arthas?" she called out desperately for him. "Arthas, can you hear me?"

"Arthas, please," she whispered, praying to whatever powers still watched over them. "You can't leave me now."

Muradin, who had managed to push himself up on one elbow and dragged his own bruised and battered body over to them. His gaze fell upon the prince, and he too searched for signs of life. "Is he...?"

Jaina nodded frantically. "He's alive," she replied with such relief. "But we have to get him out of here, now!"

Muradin looked over to the Dreadlord laying down, watching as Mal'Ganis shifted slightly. "That bastard would wake up at any moment. Come on!", he called out, grabbing his weapons and Light's Vengeance. With what mana she still have, Jaina channeled every ounce of her power into a desperate incantation, succesful in doing so as the prepared in teleporting them out of there. Muradin never looked away from the still form of his friend, and he shouted. "Now, lass!"

"Hold onto him tightly!" She gripped Arthas's shoulders with Muradin. The cavern and the looming form of Mal'Ganis and Frostmourne growing distant as they disappeared from the area.

As the last of their men have boarded the rowboats, Falric and Baelgun watch over the the land with a few of their men, waiting for the Prince and his companions to return in spite of the bitter cold. The undead have now overran the outpost they have abandoned, but Falric continued to wait for his Prince and Lady Proudmoore to return. Not wanting to leave without them in any cost. "What do you think happened to them?", Baelgun asked as he tried to look through his spyglass for any sign of the three of them. "Do you think they're-"

Falric glared at him. "They have went through odds that are stacked against them, and I'm sure they would do so again.", he declared. "If they don't arrive soon, I would have to see to them myself."

His dwarf counterpart couldn't help but admire his faith, his pragmatism won over. "I know you have faith in them, lad. But the dead have this place surrounded and heading back is suicide!"

"Then I will head over and find them myself if no one else would.", Falric declared, and Baelgun knew that his human counterpart wouldn't left anyone behind. "I have sworn an oath to protect a member of the House of Menethil. And I would certainly not break that oath by leaving them behind."

Then, without warning, the very air around them seemed to warp and shimmer. Falric and Baelgun's eyes widened as they saw a blur of light coalesce on the shoreline where they saw the trio of Jaina, Muradin and an unconcious Prince Arthas materialized before them. Jaina's desperation was clear, but was somewhat relieved to see the familiar visage of her friend. "Falric!" she called out, sounding exhausted and weary. "Falric, we need to leave now!"

Her cry was met with a group of human Footmen and Dwarven Riflemen led by Falric and Baelgun, the former's eyes widened at the sight of his prince, unconscious and battered, but alive. "Your Highness!" he exclaimed, rushing to Muradin and Jaina's side.

Muradin, panted, still feeling the pain in his back and his ribs. "That demon bastard is still out there," he warned, clutching his chest. "We can't stay here any longer!"

Falric and Baelgun didn't have to think twice. "Get him aboard!" he ordered, and his men went to work. "We leave for Lordaeron immediately!"

Their men lifted Arthas gently and began to carry him over to the flagship, Resolute. Falric took the lead as Jaina and Muradin were behind them. "What happened?" he demanded of the Archmage as they hurried to the ship. "Is he...?"

"He's alive, Falric," she assured him, her voice a mix of relief and urgency. "But...we have to get him home. He... he..."

Jaina could not finish what she was about to say, causing Falric's brow furrowed with concern. And only silence overtaken them as the rest of the suviving members of the expedition began their voyage back home. Jaina couldn't help but look back, wondering the extent of Arthas' connection to the place and of himself, knowing that Frostmourne and Mal'Ganis are still out there.

Chapter Text

Why? Why you did you do it?

It was a question Jaina asked to Arthas as he lay down motionless, but alive as she checked on him right after the healers had been finished. It has been two weeks since they left Northrend, and considering the amount of time spent going there, it's more than likely they'll spend at least half a month at sea.

With turmoil within, she kept looking at his face for any sign of him waking up. Mal'Ganis had been powerful for the three of them to finish off, and Arthas chose to risk his own well-being to pick up the cursed weapon again to make sure no one else, particularly her as she remembered the Dreadlord on the cusp of having her soul claimed runeblade, would suffer its madness.

Again.

Again.

Again.

"Mistakes," he murmured, "that changed the course of history. Mistakes that claimed the lives of those I loved and the very soul of our world."

There was no more doubt about it. Arthas knew what was happening around him and how they played out. From the way he spoke and acted at Andorhal, the way he made extensive preparations to save the population at Stratholme as much as he could. And the way he acted at Northrend...when he finally found the runeblade he sought to destroy.

She knelt beside him, stroking his hair. "Arthas," she whispered, hoping he would hear her somehow. "What have you done? And what do you know?"

The Archmage cradled his head. "Wake up," she pleadingly whispered. "You have a home to go back to where your people need you." She leaned closer. "And I... I need you," she could feel her voice crack when she said those words. The pain he hid, and the pain he had shown her in these past few months all left a fresh memory within her, a sight she wouldn't soon forget.

"I DONT WAN'T TO BE A MONSTER AGAIN"

"I need the man I know you are, not the monster you fear you could become.", she whispered, before she took his right hand, feeling the unnaturally cold skin. Curious with caution, she pulled the glove out slowly where she gasped at the sight of his arm below his elbow, which was gray now tinged with an icy blue hue. "What is this?" she murmured to herself, her eyes wide with concern and curiosity.

She had never seen anything like it before. Which the question immediately came to her mind: did Frostmourne did this?

Her thoughts were interrupted to find Falric entering the sick bay, immediately concerned of her current mood. "Lady Jaina?" he called out. "Is there something wrong

The Archmage's gaze remained fixed on the Prince's right arm as she spoke in both awe and disbelief. "Look at his hand...arm, Falric," she beckoned.

Falric moved closer to her, looking over his prince. "What is it?" he asked in both worry and curiosity.

The two looked on the unnaturally tinged skin of his right arm. "I don't know," she sighed in worry. "The rest of him is as warm as ever, but his arm... it's cold...really cold." Falric's own hand hovered over Arthas's forehead, feeling the warmth in contrast of his arm.

The Captain couldn't believe with what he was both seeing and feeling. "What happened back there?" he questioned inquisitively.

Jaina took a deep breath, looking over his...cursed or infected arm. "It's hard to say Falric," she begant. "Frostmourne...it's not just a weapon or an artifact. It's a prison, a curse. It's the reason why Arthas pursued it, other than rescuing Muradin."

"But...how?", Falric questioned. From his experience from the Second War, he knew magic or some other variant was there. But he never realized as to how dangerous it had been when Arthas pursued it.

She paused for a moment before he continued. "It holds a piece of the Lich King's very soul within it. And Arthas...he...he used it to save me and Muradin from Mal'Ganis."

Falric looked at her in disbelief. "But why?" he asked in a hurry. "If it was so dangerous, why would he risk it?"

The sorceress could not bear to look at the captain. "Because he fully intend to destroy it with all the fibre of his well being," she whispered. "But something happened before he could be able to do so."

"And what was that?" the Captain managed to ask.

"Mal'Ganis," she said, her voice filled with a mix of anger and dread. "He was there, Falric. He stopped Arthas from destroying the blade, calling it unwise...he..." She paused, tightening her grip at his hand despite the cold. "He wanted Arthas to take the blade, but when he refused and claimed that he won't become a pawn to someone called Ner'Zhul, he decided to attack the three of us in the cave."

Falric pieced out what she meant. "The blade," he murmured in shock and horror. "It's...it's cursed."

"When Arthas tried to destroy it first, Mal'Ganis decided to replace him with another one instead when it was clear to him that he would be of any part of whatever schemes they plan", Jaina continued. "Then...we fought him...but we were no match for him..."

Falric leaned in. "Then what?", he softly asked.

Jaina's eyes were filled with regret as she continued. "When Mal'Ganis saw that I was trying to keep Arthas away from him, he had other ideas," she continued her narration. "He said that if Arthas wouldn't embrace his fate, then perhaps someone else would. He tried to force the blade upon me," Jaina paused to take a deep breath, feeling her heartbeat accelerate further from remembering the trauma. "Knowing that I would be the one to bear the curse...or at least have my soul taken from it."

The Captain couldn't believe it. A sword that can rob a wielder or the opponent's soul?

"But Arthas..." Jaina's voice began to break down, thretening to break the dam that her emotions could carry. "He stepped in forward, took the blade, and faced the Dreadlord."

Falric's expression was a mix of shock and horror. "Why?" he choked out. "Why would he risk it all?"

Jaina's gaze remained on Arthas's still form. "Because...he wouldn't let that happen to anyone," she admitted, her own voice breaking down. "He knew that whoever took the blade would curse anyone. And he...he couldn't bear to see that happen. He took the fall for me, Falric. He took on the curse, and risked his own well-being to save me."

Falric looked at Jaina, looking in both anger and in dismay at her. "But why did you let him?" he reluctantly and harshly demanded. "Why didn't you stop him?"

The sorceress looked up at him, looking pained. "Because he didn't want me to suffer that fate," she whispered. "And now..." a sob threatened to escape her mouth. "Now, I fear that by trying to protect me, he's doomed himself."

The two of them went silent. The Captain turned to her, looking for some semblance of hope, but all he found was the reflection of his own fear. "What do we do now?" he asked in complete worry.

"We take him home. To Lordaeron. Dalaran. Quel'thalas. Any place that could help him.", she wasn't sure what she was saying anymore. "But...I don't know if they even know what was going on with him."

Jaina buried her face in the soft cushion of Arthas's bed, sobbing in despair. Falric approached her cautiously and he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, trying to offer what little solace he could. "It's not your fault, Lady Jaina," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You couldn't have known what that blade was capable of."

Jaina looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen. "But I should have," she whispered. "I've studied all my life, I should have known what it was capable off." Falric knelt beside her. "But you didn't," he said gently. "And that's what makes you stronger. He knew that."

"He did what he thought was right," he continued. "What he had to do. He didn't take up that blade for power or for vengeance as he could have for Mal'Ganis, but for us. For all of us."

Jaina nodded, her tears soaking the pillow beneath her. "He's always been that way," she murmured. "Always sacrificing himself for others."

Falric's grip on her shoulder tightened slightly. "And he risked it all to protect you, despite the cost." He paused to look at her. "That's why I consider him to be the best among us."

He stood up. "I have to check on the others and ensure we are on the correct course," he stated as he turned to the door. If there's anything else you need, pleasecall for me."

Jaina offered a weak smile. "Thank you, Falric," she whispered. Falric returned the smile before he turned and left the sick bay, the door creaking shut behind him.

Alone, Jaina leaned closer to the Prince, her hand still wrapped around his cold one. "Arthas," she whispered hopefully. "You made a promise to me once, do you remember? That no matter what happens, you would never push me away again." Her grip on his hand tightened, her eyes searching his still face for any sign of recognition. "And I promised that I would never leave your side," she continued. "Now, I need you to hold onto that promise. I need you to come back."

The silence was deafening to her, but she continued. "I don't know what's happening to you," she confessed. "But...please, Arthas," she begged, trembling. "You can't leave me here alone with all these fears. You can't leave Falric, or Muradin, or any of us who believe in you. We need you."

"I'll be here, Arthas," she promised. "I'll be here. Just come back to me."

Muradin had trouble moving on his own, especially since that blasted Dreadlord did a number on to his ribs. But fortunately, the healers have managed to patch him up, but was also walking with a cane temporarily to support himself. "How fare the waters?" he asked the Captain, who overlooked the sea before him.

"Treacherous but we sail steadfast," Falric replied. "Two weeks more until we reach Lordaeron's shores, if the winds remain in our favor."

Muradin sighed, leaning over the railing. "And Arthas?" he asked in worry.

"The same," Falric replied with the same tone of regret and frustration. "He has not stirred since we left Northrend."

"And the lass?"

"She remains by his side," Falric answered him, admiring the Archmage's resillience. "Day and night, she watches over him, refusing to leave his side."

The two men fell into silence, the creaking of the ship's timbers and the cries of the seagulls above the only sounds that filled the space between them. "What of his arm?" Muradin asked.

Falric looked down at his own hands, remembering the chilling cold that had seeped through his gauntlets. "It's...still as it is, and as cold as ice, and looking as if it decayed in a treacherous snowstorm" he murmured. "But his body is warm, his breathing steady. If we are being optimistic, he was not fully cursed as Lady Proudmoore stated, but he did not leave unscathed."

"Has King Terenas or Lord Uther been informed yet?", Muradin asked.

Falric took a moment to think then shook his head. "No, we have not," he admitted. "We sent no ravens, made no reports. The truth is..." he swallowed hard, "we don't know what to tell them."

Muradin's eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Why not?" he asked.

The knight sighed heavily. "Because if the word reaches Lordaeron that their crown prince has been...infected..." He trailed off, unable to voice the fear that had taken him. "It would be very concerning," Falric continued. "The people need to believe in their leaders, in their heroes. To learn that their prince has been tainted by the same evil who brought the plague to the Kingdom...might even be more problematic."

Muradin nodded as he digested the information. "And the King?" he murmured.

"King Terenas..." Falric paused, then sighed. "If he is to learn that his heir might be lost as well...I fear for his sanity, Muradin."

The dwarf's hand tightened around his warhammer, his jaw clenching. "And Uther?" he prompted.

Falric looked over to the sea as if it would give him the answers he needed. "Uther..." He took a deep breath. "Not yet. We do not know what to tell him."

"You think he'd blame us?"

The knight nodded solemnly. "I do not know what he would do," Falric confessed. "But I fear that the shock and the pain might drive him to question our loyalty, our judgment. And in such a state, who knows what he might do?"

The dwarf nodded. "Then it is best that we handle this ourselves," he decided. "We could only hope that Jaina would be able to talk some sense if they start asking questions."

Falric nodded. Although he was curious at one thing. "Muradin, given that you have taught Arthas when he was a child and have plenty of adventures with him, do you know anything between him and Lady Proudmoore by any chance?"

The dwarf's gaze softened. "Aye," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "These two were an item when they were younger He even told me of it," Muradin continued, "but I never knew for certain. But fate had other plans and they separated abruptly." he murmured. "Even in the darkest of times, that love remained. It was something that kept him anchored to the light, to the good within him. And when we were fighting side by side, I could see it in his eyes, in his determination to protect her. It was as if she was his light in the abyss that he fell into."

Falric nodded. "And now," he whispered, "now she is the one trying to save him."

"It seems fate has a twisted sense of humor," Muradin continued. "But if anyone can pull him back from the brink, it's her. She's strong, that one. Stronger than any of us give her credit for."

The two men stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts about the prince and the sorceress. The wind picked up, carrying with it the salty scent of the sea and the promise of battles yet to come.

Back in the dimly lit sick bay, Jaina sat beside Arthas, her eyes red-rimmed from a lack of sleep and an excess of worry. His hand remained in hers, her faith unyielding as she tstayed by his side. As she carefully adjusted the blanket over his chest, her gaze fell upon a crumpled piece of parchment that had slipped from his pocket. It was a map of Azeroth, its edges frayed and its surface marred with hastily scribbled notes in both black and crimson ink.

Jaina picked up the map. Where she saw Kel'thuzad's name, the crimson ink stark against the parchment. The name was encircled, with 'capture or kill' written beneath it, the word 'capture' underlined multiple times.

"Andorhal," she said to herself, eyes widening as she remembered their investigation of the plague. The haunted look in his eyes, the way he had spoken of the necromancer with such intensity, the way he had insisted on capturing Kel'thuzad rather than killing him outright.

She thought back in the confrontation Kel'thuzad, the way Arthas had moved with a precision that seemed almost rehearsed, as if he had known exactly where to find the him and what to expect from him. She remembered the way he had studied him. And that was the first time she surmised that he was hiding something from her.

Then, there's 'Baron Rivendare' who is said to be a confidant of Kel'thuzad's Cult of the Damned who also act as Stratholme's Lord Protector, who had been working with the House of Barov in spreading the plague all throughout Lordaeron. What's more, the way Arthas kept close contact with Marwyn, especially when they are at Heartglen, only increased her suspicions "He's been planning this for some time," she murmured, her thumb tracing the line of the city's walls and to the evacuation camp that they have set up beforehand.

'Stratholme' came next with the word 'evacuate' scribbled. She remembered. Arthas did what he could to make sure the plague doesn't spread in the city, succeeding until human error in Rivendare's replacement as the ruler of the city resulted in the plague still spreading in a far smaller scale, but she could remember the regret Arthas displayed, as well as his desperation to save those he still could from those he couldn't. As well as her and Uther being forced to participate to protect those they could still save. And it remained a haunting memory for her.

The next was Mal'Ganis written in an angered manner judging by his handwriting, with the words kill immediately followed by failed and to be killed at Northrend at all costs. She could remember facing the Dreadlord the first time at Stratholme, but when she looked at Arthas, it looked as if he was all too familiar given his contempt and his anger at the Dreadlord, but also being careful in not letting vengeance guide his path. It was uncanny, as if he had faced Mal'Ganis beforehand, but she could not piece out as to how and why.

Her eyes fell upon the most chilling notation of all: 'Frostmourne' with the words 'destroy at all costs' scribbled beneath it. Jaina felt a cold shiver run down her spine. She glanced at Arthas, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breath, and her heart ached with the weight of her suspicion. "Could he have..."

Somehow...she came to the conclusion that Arthas knew of all of this and sought different results.

Or that for some reason...he came back from a future that happened to correct these errors. Despite how absurd that sounded.

Jaina carefully unfolded the crumpled parchment, revealing more of Arthas' frantic scribbles. The name 'Frostmourne' was prominent, surrounded by a web of lines and notes that spoke of its power and its curse. Her thoughts swirled like a tempest. The way he had spoken of the blade with such conviction, the cold fury that had burned in his eyes when he saw it sealed—it was as if he had faced it before. And yet, she had never seen this side of Arthas before.

The Archmage felt she had uncovered the biggest discovery of them all. One that made her ask more questions than receive any snwers before.

"He's been through this all before," she murmured in realization. "But why? Why didn't he tell us?" she asked herself, her grip tightening around the parchment. She recalled the countless times he had closed himself off from them. Is this...why he was insistent on keeping everything a secret?

Jaina's heart skipped a beat when she heard the faint rustling of the blanket beside her. The Prince's eyes fluttered open, which she quickly folded the incriminating map and slipped it into her pocket. She turned to him, her eyes brimming with relief and concern. "You're awake," she softly said in relief.

Arthas sat up, disoriented. "Where are we?", he questioned.

"We're on the flagship, Resolute." she replied, her voice calm despite the turmoil in her heart. "We've left Northrend as soon as we can and we're heading back to Lordaeron."

The Prince looked around for a moment. "Frostmourne? And Mal'Ganis?", he asked.

Jaina swallowed hard, her gaze never leaving Arthas's. "When we fled the cavern, Mal'Ganis and Frostmourne were left behind," she confessed where she watch as understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by anger and disappointment.

Arthas's hand shot up to cover his face, his fingers digging into his skin. "Damn it," he whispered in utter frustration. "We had them in our grasp, and now...now they're out there, waiting..."

Jaina reached out to touch his arm gently. "I know," she empathetically told him. "But we couldn't risk it all then. We needed to get you out, to keep you safe."

"Still, we shouldn't have left that to chance...", Arthas mumbled.

He looked down at his right arm, the icy blue tint stark against his pale skin, feeling the unnatural cold emanating from it even through the thick fabric of the blanket. The sight of it brought back the memory of the darkened chamber. He had felt it before, but never so strongly, never so close to the surface. Jaina's gentle voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Your hand," she began in a concerning tone. "It's been like this for two weeks, Arthas. The healers are baffled. They've never seen anything like it."

"I know," Arthas looked down at his glowing right arm, the very essence of the Lich King's power pulsating within his veins. "But it's a risk I was willing to take."

Jaina's gaze was filled with confusion and concern. "What do you mean, Arthas?" she asked tentatively.

"Jaina," Arthas began. "When I held the blade in my grasp, I felt something... something other than the cold." He paused. "It was the Lich King, Ner'Zhul," he whispered, the name leaving his lips like a curse. "He was there, in the blade, trying to claim me once more."

"What? How is that even possible?" she stammered. She had heard that name before. Antonidas had fought his Death Knights during the Second War along with the Sons of Lothar, but from what she knew, Ner'Zhul was an Orc. Not an undead being.

"He's always been there. But this time, it was different. This time, he was so close, I could almost feel his grip around my soul." He clenched his fist, the veins on his hand standing out. "If I had held onto the blade any longer, I fear I would not be standing here before you, free of his control."

The mage looked at Arthas staring at his right arm and hand, as if it resonated with him. "But...how is it you know all of it? And the way you act, especially since it looked like you're familiar with what was happening with your hand."

He took a look at her.

There was no point in keeping any secrets any longer. He knew that she had to know, to make sure the rest are prepared at what's to come, even in spite of the tremendous risks that came along with it. He took a deep breath."Jaina," he began in a trembling. "I've... I've lived through this before. Everything—Kel'thuzad, Frostmourne, the Lich King. Because...I made it all happen..."

He looked at the Sorceress, his eyes becoming fearful as they are pained. "Because I...was the Lich King..."

Jaina felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at Arthas, her eyes searching his for any sign of deception, but all she found was the truth under his features. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. "Arthas, what are you saying?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

It was now or never.

"I am telling you the truth, Jaina," he said in low, regretful tone. "And it was something that...I kept with me to all this time."

"That can't be true, Arthas," Jaina choked out. "You can't have...been the Lich King. There has to be some mistake, some misunderstanding."

But after all she had learned, from him. The map she recovered. And the way he had acted all throughout together. It was all coming together.

But, a monster? Him? Of all people?

Arthas solemnly and sorrowfully looked at her. "There is no mistake, Jaina. I had falle to the whispers of Frostmourne and became the very monster I swore to destroy. I have lived through the destruction of my own kingdom, the betrayal of my mentor, the genocide of my own people. I perished at the very humanity I sought to extinguish. And in my final moments...I found myself returned in the comfort of a Lordaeron that still lives before everything that happened."

Her mind raced with a thousand questions, but she could only manage to whisper, "How?"

"I don't know," Arthas admitted, he wasn't even sure if he could tell him that his father sent him back. "All I know is that...I wouldn't let anything that happened before...happen again..."

Jaina leaned over to the wall of the ship. Is this...why he was so distant to her before? Because he was so ashamed and so afraid of everything that he had done? "How could you tell...?", she uttered out.

Arthas knew he had to explain to her, brushing past his own guilt and self-loathing. "Andorhal...I failed to prevent the grain from being transported to Stratholme...and I killed Kel'thuzad as opposed to capturing him."

"And Stratholme?", Jaina fearfully asked. In spite of the chaos that happened at the city, Arthas saved most of the people inside by preventing them into consuming tainted grain, only marred by human error that happened there.

The Prince bit lip. "...purged.", he admitted with such guilt and pain that she never saw before.

Her hand reached up to her chest. "Arthas, tell me you didn't," she whispered, her voice shaking. The thought of her friend, her confidant, her loved one committing such atrocities was unbearable.

"I did," he admitted with pain and regret. "The purging of Stratholme was beginning. I couldn't bear the thought of losing more people to the Scourge, so I acted in haste and anger. I don't even know what I was doing back there. Other than having my revenge on Mal'Ganis"

Jaina's mind reeled with confusion. "But I was there with Uther," she protested, her voice rising slightly. "We were all fighting together, saving the people we could. How could it have been like that?"

"The timeline has changed, Jaina," he interrupted. "In the version of events I remember, I was alone in that decision, consumed by the desire to purge the city of all life rather than risk the spread of the plague. It was a moment of madness that I can never take back, and one that set me on the path to becoming the Lich King."

The Archmage didn't know what to come up with that sort of confession. "But why? Why didn't you tell us?"

He squeezed his eyes shut in self-loathing. "Because I was afraid," he confessed. "Afraid of what I was becoming, and what it would do to us. I didn't want you to see me like that, to fear me as so many others did."

Jaina felt as though her world had been shattered into a million pieces, each shard a question about the man she thought she knew so well. "But you...you did everything you could to save people," she whispered, her voice shaking. "You fought alongside us, you protected those we couldn't...why would you say you did those things?"

Arthas could no longer look at her directly in the eye. "Because every action has a consequence, Jaina," he answered her. "The choices I made now, in the present, were at least made to mitigate the damage that was caused before..."

The mage could, but barely, put the pieces together. "Then Northrend...Mal'Ganis...and Frostmourne?"

"In my original timeline, Northrend was where it all began," he began to explain. "Where I allowed vengeance to be my judgement. I sought the power to save my people, but in doing so, I damned them all." His gaze drifted to the hand that had once wielded Frostmourne, the very hand that had brought about the downfall of his kingdom. "Mal'Ganis and Frostmourne were tied to my fate, the seeds for the horrors I've wrought. If I can destroy them before eberything else happens...then perhaps everything woud change."

He continued. "But since Mal'Ganis and Frostmourne are still out there...I can only pray that we would find a way to stop it..."

Jaina felt as if a dagger had been plunged into her heart.

She desperately hoped for any hint of deception, but all she saw was the truth and the torment his memories as a monster inflicted on him. "What happened next?"

"After Northrend... everything spiraled out of control." He paused, collecting his thoughts, his eyes distant as if gazing into the abyss of his own personal hell. "Lordaeron fell to the Scourge," he continued, each word a painful reminder of his failure. "The people I had sworn to protect, the lands that were my birthright, all ravaged by the very weapon I sought to destroy."

Her eyes grew wide with horror as she felt his words sinking in like a cold stone into her heart. "Falric and Marwyn," she murmured, her voice cracking. "They were your friends, Arthas."

Arthas nodded painfully as his features showed it. "Falric and Marwyn," he said, the names tasting bitter on his tongue. "They fell in Northrend, by my hand." His eyes grew distant, as if seeing the events unfold before him once more. "In my quest for power, I was blind to the cost. I raised them as Death Knights," he whispered, the words leaving him with a sense of profound loss and guilt. "They were my brothers in arms, my friends...and I turned them into monsters."

Jaina's eyes filled with tears, and she could feel her heart breaking for him. "What about your father?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

The prince's gaze fell to the floor.

Jaina watched as his shoulders slumped, his face in pain as he wrestled with the darkest memories of his past. Tears streamed down his cheeks, leaving trails that glistened in the candlelight. "Jaina," he began, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession, "When I returned to Lordaeron, the plague had already taken hold. Father...King Terenas..." He choked in anguish. "I killed him," Arthas sobbed, the confession tearing him apart. "I killed him with my own hands."

Jaina's heart shattered into a million pieces as she stared at the man she loved and admired. The prince she had known was gone, replaced by a being of sorrow and regret. She reached out tentatively, her hand hovering over his shoulder, unsure of what to say or do. "And Uther?"

"Uther," he uttered his name. "My mentor. I slew him as well," he continued. "To take my father's urn and disposed of his ashes, and replaced them with Kel'thuzad's remains."

The mage felt her world crumble around her. The man before her was not the heroic figure she had known; he was a lost soul, haunted by the atrocities he had committed. "Why would...you do this?" she managed to ask, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own breaking heart.

"I don't even know anymore." His voice was a hollow shell of the commanding presence it once held. "Whatever reasoning that I did drowned in the slaughter. Not even caring what happens next as long as it suited me.I led the Scourge through the forests of Quel'Thalas, leaving a trail of death and destruction in our wake. The elves, once our allies, became our enemies as I sought the power to resurrect Kel'Thuzad as an Archlich."

"Their city, their culture, their very lives...I didn't just destroy, I obliterated it. All for the sake of the Scourge. I defiled the Sunwell and almost brought the High Elves to the brin of extinction."

The mage couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was overwhelmed. Horrified. Angry. Fearful. She couldn't even know what she was hearing anymore.

Jaina's eyes grew wide with horror, her hand moving to cover her mouth as if to hold in a scream that never came. "Dal...Dalaran?" she whispered. "No, Arthas, please tell me it isn't so," she begged, her eyes searching his for any shred of the lie she so desperately hoped to find.

"Dalaran," Arthas painfully repeated. "Jaina, I'm so sorry," he murmured. "In my previous life, I led Kel'Thuzad and the Scourge to the very gates of your beloved city. I watched as they slaughtered everyone in their path, as if the lives of the innocent were mere stepping stones on my path to power." His fists clenched tightly at the thought.

Jaina felt a cold chill run down her spine, her eyes widening in horror at the cruel revelation. "Antonidas...no," she whispered, the very thought of her mentor and the fall of her beloved city too much to bear. "You...you killed them all?"

His grief and regrets threatened to swallow him. "Most of them," he confirmed. "In my thirst for power, I betrayed everything I had ever held dear. The Kirin Tor fell before my blade. Antonidas..." He paused, his voice cracking. "I killed him with Frostmourne, Jaina. I watched the light leave his eyes, the very essence of his being snuffed out like a candle in the wind, only to obtain spellbook."

Jaina felt as if Arthas' words pierced her soul like the sharpest of dagger thrusts. "A spellbook," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of shock and disbelief. "You did all of this... for a spellbook?"

"To summon Archimonde and the Burning Legion," he answered her with a profound sense of self-loathing.

The color drained from Jaina's face as the reality of Arthas' confession sank in. Her eyes was already pleading for any hint that this was but a terrible, twisted nightmare. "This can't be true," she choked out, and she was sobbing. "Please, Arthas, tell me it's not true," she begged, her hands tightening around his arms as if to keep herself from falling apart.

"Every word I've spoken is the truth of what happened in the timeline I was torn from." He reached for her hand, his eyes filled with a hope that seemed almost too fragile to hold. "If you even wish...you could see it for yourself..."

Jaina stared at his hand outstretched hand, her eyes filled with a tumult of emotions. For a moment, she was torn between the urge to slap it away and the burning need to know if his words were true. "You expect me to just...read your mind?" she said, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief.

"If it will help you understand, if it will help you believe... then yes," he replied, his voice steady despite the tremble in his hand. "I have nothing to hide from you now, Jaina. Nothing but the truth."

Jaina took a moment to process the overwhelming revelation. The man she had trusted, the prince she had once loved, had been the harbinger of such unspeakable horrors in another time.

Her heart and was screaming at her to not do it if she wished it to be whole.

But her mind, her unsatiated curiosity and desire to know what happened to Arthas. Why he acted like this. Eventually, it won out.

With trembling hands, she reached out to grasp Arthas's hand, her eyes searching his for any sign that he was lying. His gaze remained steadfast, the green of his eyes piercing hers with a desperation that she had never seen before.

"Very well," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Let me see for myself."

Jaina took a moment to gather herself. Nervouslu, she placed her hand firmly on his forehead, her eyes closing as she began to weave the delicate threads of her magic around his psyche. "Please," he whispered, in anguish, "forgive me."

As she delved into the depths of his memories, the cabin around them faded away, replaced by a whirlwind of images and emotions that assaulted her senses. She felt the weight of his grief, the burning anger that had fueled his quest, and the all-consuming hunger for power that had led him to embrace the darkness.

She found herself in familiar city during a rainy night...and she looked to find Arthas, clearly in discomfort and in a hurry, wait for Uther and herself to arrive. But there was a difference from the environment she saw only weeks ago compared to the one in his memories.

There was no evacuation camp that could have housed refugees in Stratholme. Jaina realizes that, the grain from Andorhal must have arrived without any consequences as she and Arthas had originally destroyed it. She looked to find Arthas anxiously waiting for Uther to arrive along with his knights, and herself. Rather...the person she was in Arthas' original life.

"Glad you could make it, Uther."

"Watch your tone with me, boy. You may be the prince, but I'm still your superior as a paladin"

Jaina couldn't help but notice how strained these two sounded. 'What could have happened at Heartglen before this?'

"As if I could forget. Listen, Uther, there's something about the plague you should know..."

He looked over, horrified as the villagers took the infected grain in the city. "Oh no, we're too late. These people have all been infected. They may look fine now, but it's just a matter of time before they turn into the undead!"

"What?!"

'What makes you say that, Arthas?', she wondered in worry. Compared to this one to hers in the present, this one was more prone to act, whereas the present Arthas extensively prepared for something like this.

"This entire city must be purged..."

A shockwave came into Jaina...is this...what he meant to her earlier?

"How can you even consider that? There's got to be some other way!"

"Damn it, Uther! As your future king, I order you to purge this city!"

Jaina couldn't help but just be shocked at this behaviour. 'Isn't there any other option, Arthas?'

"You are not my king yet, boy! Nor would I obey that command even if you were!"

"Then I must consider this as an act of treason."

"Treason? Have you lost your mind, Arthas?"

"Have I? Lord Uther, by my right of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command and suspend your paladins from service."

"Arthas! You can't just-"

"It's done! Those of you who have the will to save this land, follow me! The rest of you... get out of my sight!"

"You've just crossed a terrible threshold, Arthas."

"Jaina?"

I'm sorry, Arthas. I can't watch you do this.

'We...I left him...', Jaina watched in horror, before she heard the screams of mercy and anguish as Arthas and his men began to systematically slaughtered countless people inside the city. She felt her heart broke. 'Was this really the right thing you could do, Arthas', she mournfully professed as a tear left her eye.

In this timeline...Arthas did that because there was no other choice when their fates are sealed. In the present...he used all the means he could to save numerous people from such a fate.

All Jaina could feel was uncertainty and sadness.

As Jaina's magic pierced the veil of Arthas' memories, she witnessed the fateful moment he claimed the cursed blade, Frostmourne. The cavernous chamber where they went through only a few weeks ago echoed with the anguished cries of the dwarven hero, Muradin Bronzebeard, as he lay lifeless beside the young prince.

'I was not there...'she whispered to herself. 'Uther and I...weren't there...'

The scene was a punch to her gut. She watched in horror as Arthas, consumed by anger and grief, raised Frostmourne high and brought it down upon the dark figure of Mal'Ganis, seemingly killing him.

The images grew darker as Jaina's magic delved deeper into Arthas' tortured past. She watched, her heart wrenching, as he stood in the blood-soaked snow of Northrend, the lifeless bodies of Falric and Marwyn lying at his feet. His eyes burned with the cold fire of the Lich King's influence. He raised Frostmourne high, and the air crackled with dark energy as he brought it down upon them with a sickening crunch. Falric and Marwyn's eyes snapped open, their skin pallid and lifeless, their souls forever bound to his will.

'Falric!', Jaina screamed helplessly for their friend who had been a close confidant to the both of them. 'Marwyn!' No!'

What she watched next was nothing short of a massacre as the trio slaughtered the 1st Legion and raised their corpses to become members of his undead army. And she could only watch as Arthas' lips crept up to a manic grin to see that everything is going his way.

Celebrations rang across Lordaeron as their beloved Prince finally returned from Northrend, signifying another victory against the plague that ravaged their lands.

But to Jaina, everything will go worse from here. As she watched Arthas, Falric and Marwyn march to the throne room of Lordaeron.

'Arthas, no...', Jaina begged, even trying to physically stop him, only for the trio to pass through her like a ghost. 'Arthas! Don't do this!"

"Ah my son...", Terenas greeted his heir with open arms.

"You no longer need to sacrifice for your people. You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown.", he gravely proclaimed, that only led Jaina to watch as he began to advance at his father. "I've taken care of everything."

"What is this? What are you doing, my son?"

Jaina's eyes widen in horror.

"Succeeding you, father.", he bellowed just as he plunged Frostmourne into him, killing him. Moments later, Falric and Marwyn began to systematically slaughter everyone in their way, resurrecting them as servants of the Scourge while Arthas walked away to see his work fulfilled. "This kingdom shall fall, and from the ashes shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundations of the world"

From there, Jaina watched in anguish and sorrow as Arthas stood against Uther. Gavinrad the Dire, Sage and Ballador are all dead right behind him, while Arthas pointed Frostmourne at the man he once called his mentor.

"Your father ruled this land for seventy years. And you've ground it do dust in a matter of days.", Uther bellowed in an anguished and angered tone.

Arthas only sneered at him. "Very dramatic, Uther. Give me the urn and I'll make sure you'll die quickly."

The Paladin was infuriated as he was dismayed. "The urn holds your father's ashes, Arthas! What, were you hoping to piss on them one last time before you left this kingdom to rot?"

The fallen prince chuckled at him. "I didn't know what it held. Nor does it matter. I'll take what I came for, one way or another."

'No...no...', Jaina begged, as she could barely hold onto herself.

"I dearly hope there's a special place in hell waiting for you, Arthas", Uther croaked, feeling his life to be in its last legs.

Arthas only stared at him with nothing but malice. "We may never know, Uther. I intend to live forever."

'Please, stop!'

"Finish me...I deserve...a clean death..."

"After all you've put me through, woman, the last thing I'll give you is the peace of death."

"NO! You wouldn't dare...!"

'No...Arthas...I...I...'

"It pains me to even look at you, Arthas"

"I'll be happy to end your torment, old man. I told you, your magics could not stop me."

All Jaina could do now...is watch Dalaran destroyed by a creature beyond her worst nightmares...

'ARTHAS, PLEASE! STOP!'

'Return the blade. Complete the circle. Release me from this prison!'

He struck down the ice and it shatters to the sound of a screech of joy, and the mysterious helm falls to the ground. Arthas dons it, and his eyes move about rapidly under their lids. His eyes open, and glow with radiant blue light.

Now, we are one.

'I...I can't...I CAN'T!'

So you wish to commune with the dead? You shall have your wish...

You won't deny me this, Arthas! I must know! I must find out!

Jaina's hand recoiled from Arthas' forehead as if burned, her eyes snapping open as the connection between their minds severed abruptly. The vivid memories, the sheer depth of his betrayals and the agonizing path he had trodden, left her breathless.

"No," she whispered, her own voice cracking. "No, no, no..." She staggered back, her hands shaking as she tried to find the words to express what she really felt.

Is he truly a monster...?

Jaina stumbled away from her own face began to be drenched with tears. She couldn't bear to look at him, to see the man she had once loved reflected in the eyes of the monster he had become. Her legs carried her out of the room, her sobs being heard through the corridors of the ship. The door to her room slammed shut behind her, the lock clicking into place.

Arthas could only look down on the fllor as he shuddered and sobbed. This is what he feared, he knew it would break her. He knew that the horrors of his past could never be fully erased. He sank his head in his hands, and allowed himself to weep for the first time in a very long time.

In her room, Jaina's shoulders heaved with silent sobs, her body trembling as the visions of Arthas' dark deeds replayed in her mind's eye. Each memory was a dagger to her heart, piercing the very core of her being. Her hand hovered over her chest as if trying to hold in the agony that threatened to spill forth. "Lordaeron," she murmure the name of the homeland a mournful lament on her lips at the mention of the fallen kingdom, ravaged by the very hand she had once pledged to stand beside.

Her thoughts drifted to Uther in his last moment of anguish and defiance. "Uther," she whispered, her voice cracking. "How could you let this happen?"

King Terenas' proud face flashed before her before it was replaced by horror when Frostmourne was plunged into him. "You were supposed to protect him, Arthas" she whispered, anger seeping into her grief. "You were the crown prince, not his murderer.

Her sobs grew louder. "Falric... Muradin..." she whispered through her tears. Her thoughts strayed to the haunting beauty of Quel'Thalas, its gleaming spires and vibrant forests now a distant, tainted memory. She could almost hear the screams of the High Elves as the Scourge rampaged all throughout their homeland. And Dalaran... her home that nurtured her desire to study what she could, destroyed by the very hand of the Legion that he had a hand in summoning. She choked out a sob. "Master Antonidas," she murmured, her mentor's name a prayer on her lips. The image of him, kneeling and later falling before Arthas' blade, was almost too much to endure as she gripped her chest to try to calm herself in vain.

She couldn't understand what she was supposed to feel.

Her anger at his betrayal, her sorrow for the lives he had taken, and the pain of her own loss felt like a crushing weight upon her.

Yet, she knew what why Arthas allowed her to see his mind, because he hoped that she could understand under the pain of regret and self-loathing he had subjected himself into. His wish to change his fate, to save his people and prevent the suffering that had ravaged the world in his previous life, was genuine.

Because if he truly did have a second chance and he was still that monster...why would he bother going through all the effort to avert the events that transpired?

It was a stark contrast to the cold, heartless and merciless Death Knight and later Lich King. She wanted to be furious with him, to fear and despise him as she had back then. But all she could feel was a profound sadness.

"Arthas," she whispered to the empty room, her voice hoarse with the effort of holding back her sobs. "What have you become?" She looked as if expecting him to appear and offer some semblance of explanation or comfort. But he didn't.

Jaina's gaze fell to the floor, her eyes unfocused as the memory of Frostmourne's claiming came back to her. "The blade," she murmured. "You took it to save your people, but it took you instead." She remembered the frenzied look in his eyes, the madness that had begun to take hold as he claimed the cursed weapon.

And then in the present, where he wished to see the runeblade destroyed first and foremost. And would have if Mal'Ganis had not intervened.

Her thoughts went back to the vault. Mal'Ganis had loomed over her, the malicious glint in his eyes promising a fate worse than death. Arthas had watched, heart torn between his love for her and the fear of her succumbing to the same fate he had.

When Mal'Ganis had intended to make her its wielder by having her hold the blade to claim her soul when Arthas adamantly refused to embrace his destiny by wielding it himself.

And against his own wishes, he rushed over and picked up the blade once more to save her from Mal'Ganis. But not out of vengeance as he once had, but of the need of protect her from walking the path he once had.

Jaina's eyes snapped back into focus. "What am I supposed to do?" she whispered painfully. "How can I trust you again?" Her fists clenched at her sides, the anger she felt towards him mingling with the fear of what he could become.

Her fear and anger warred with the belief that had been rekindled by his selfless act of saving her from Frostmourne's curse. She knew that Arthas had picked up the blade to make sure she wouldn't have the fate he went through, risking his sanity and his life in the process. The thought of him walking the path of darkness again was a terrifying. She looked at her room, as if hoping he was there so she could demand answers, to scream at him for the pain he had caused and yet to thank him for the love he had shown her. Her heart was torn, and she didn't know if she could ever forgive him or trust him fully again.

"Arthas," she whispered to the empty air. "Why did you do it? Why did you risk everything?"

There was no response. She knew she needed to confront him, to demand answers and find a way to reconcile the man she had once loved with the monster he had become.

Jaina took a moment to compose herself, wiping the last of her tears and steeling her resolve. She had to face Arthas again, to confront the man she had seen in those memories. She took a deep breath and slowly made her way back to the sick bay, the floorboards groaning under her footsteps.

The sight of him, still on his bed, his shoulders heaving with his own silent sobs, tugged at her heartstrings. She paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment, trying to reconcile the two images of the man she knew. The Arthas who had once been her friend, her confidant, her lover and the monster that had wrought havoc across the world.

"Arthas," she began with a shudder. "What you have shown me, it's... it's more than I can fathom." She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to him, hesitating before finally touching his shoulder. "But I need to understand. Why did you do all of this?"

Arthas looked up, his eyes red and swollen from crying. "For the sake of my people," he rasped after having to relive his own memories. "I thought if I had the power, I could prevent the suffering, save everyone."

"But...", she tried to speak.

"But I didn't.", he bitterly admitted to her. "All I did was the opposite. Nothing I ever do will make up for what I've done...no matter what I do..."

"Arthas...", she spoke again, sounding neutral. "Be silent..."

"But what kind of a man I am?", he sobbed. "A failure of the past in protecting my own people. And of the present where neither Frostmourne or Mal'Ganis are erased. If that is my fate...to be a monster once again-"

Arthas's words were cut off as Jaina's hand flew through the air and connected with his cheek. His head snapped to the side with the force of the slap, and he blinked back the tears, looking up at her in surprise. Her eyes were now filled with a fiery anger that seemed to burn through him.

"How could you," she uttered in a trembling voice. "How could you call yourself a failure, when you've come back to us, risking everything to change what you've done?!"

He stared at her, his hand slowly raising to his cheek, his eyes wide with shock.

"You risked your own life for mine, Arthas," she continued, her own voice rising at every moment. "You've given countless others hope when they had none! You've shown that you can still be the King that you were supposed to be!"

Tears streamed down her face as she took a step closer to him. "I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself with guilt," she declared as she struggled herself from sobbing. "You are not the monster you were, and I refuse to let you become one again!"

Arthas's own eyes began to well up, the pain of her slap fading away as he took in her words. He looked down at his hands, shaking. "Jaina... I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"It's not enough, Arthas," she said firmly but her tone having softened "You need to believe that you could change your fate as with the rest. That you can be better than the person you once were."

"But Frostmourne," he reasoned out. "It's still out there, waiting for me to take it up again."

"Then leave it there," she said with a fierce determination. "Leave it in the frozen hell of Northrend where it belongs. And if it does come back, then we'll break it together until it's grinded to dust."

Arthas looked away. "I don't know if I can," he murmured.

"Arthas," Jaina called out as she knelt beside him, her hands still resting on his shoulder.s "Look at me." She waited until he met her gaze, the torment in his eyes mirroring the chaos in her own heart. "You have already proven that you are not the same man who brought ruin to Lordaeron. You've chosen a different path. One that, your intentions are nothing but genuine for all those you hold dear."

He swallowed hard. "But the scars of what I've done..."

"Cannot be erased," she conceded. "But they can be atoned for. You've already started with your every action since we've met again. After you came back to me."

He looked back at her, looking desperate. "But what if I fail?"

Jaina's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Then we'll face that together," she declared. "You don't have to walk alone, Arthas. You never have, and you never will."

"I don't deserve your help, Jaina," Arthas murmured. "Or anyone else's. The lives I've taken, the destruction I've wrought..."

"You think I don't know that?" Jaina's tone was fierce as she met his gaze. "If anything...it's more of a reason why I need to help you more than ever."

He stared at her. "Why?" he whispered, his voice cracking in disbelief. "After all that I've done, why would you stand with me?"

Jaina took a deep breath, her hand moving from his shoulder to cup his cheek. "Because I believe in the good that still lives within you," Jaina solemnly said. "Because I've seen the man you were, the prince who was loved and cherished, and the hero who fought for his people." She paused, her gaze never wavering from his. "And as I said before, I won't leave you."

He remembered.

Even after he did all those things to her world. She continued to persist in believing he was still out there somewhere. Even personally storming Icecrown herself just for an opportunity to speak to him. Even when it was clear he was a lost cause.

Arthas felt his chest constrict as Jaina's words of belief and hope pierced through the armor of despair that had enveloped him for so long. He could feel the warmth of her hand against his cold skin, a stark contrast to the frigid embrace of Frostmourne. The sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears as he tried to comprehend the depth of her compassion. He had feared that his actions had irrevocably damned him, but in her eyes, he saw a glimmer of hope that he had thought lost forever.

With trembling hands, Arthas reached up to hold hers, "Jaina, I never knew... I never knew that someone could still believe in me."

Jaina's grip tightened around him. "You're not alone, Arthas," she said firmly. "And you'll never will be."

He leaned into her embrace, feeling her warmth as she pulled Arthas closer to her, her heart aching with the pain she felt emanating from him. His shoulders heaved with silent sobs. She wrapped her arms around his broad frame, feeling the tension coiled within him, and held him tightly to her chest, as if by sheer will she could shield him from his own past. Her hand stroked his hair gently, her eyes squeezed shut as she whispered reassurances that seemed to echo through the very fabric of the room.

"Shh," she murmured. "It's okay, Arthas. Let it all out."

It was silent but that's what they needed as the Archmage continued to embrace him tightly. "Let yourself fall apart. And I promise to hold you together."

Chapter Text

Days passed, the smell of warm bread and stew filled the air of the sick bay as Jaina and Arthas sat together for breakfast but the Archmage could not shake the sight of Arthas's tainted arm from her mind. She took a sip of her tea, relaxing herself before asking, "What about your arm, Arthas?"

He paused and stared down at his right arm. The skin remained the same unnatural hue, in contrast to the healthy flesh that the rest of his body composed of. He spoke with agitation, "The runeblade's power still lingers, but I'll manage."

The Prince picked up the potted plant beside him, the leaves withered and brown when he concentrated familiar power with it. He held it up to the dim light of the sick bay, sighing. "Trying to explain this to father and Uther would be a problem by itself."

"You should keep it hidden for now," Jaina advised him, also worried on what would happen if they do know. "There are healers in Dalaran or perhaps the High Elves of Quel'thalas who might be able to help. Magic is more powerful than you know, Arthas."

It didn't seem to give him any comfort of that. "Jaina, even as the Lich King, I never encountered a case where a soul was restored to its natural state once it had been tainted by the Scourge. Whatever infected my arm...it's not something to be trifled with."

"But you're different," she hopefully insisted. "You have a chance. We can't just sit here and do nothing."

He took a deep breath. "I know you want to help, but I fear that by using it, I might only make it worse. The last thing I want is for this to spread any further."

She looked at him in pity and worry, as she continued to eat. But there's a question that she felt need to be answered. "What was it like when you first took Frostmourne, Arthas?" Jaina asked. She couldn't imagine the torment he must have felt, from being a noble prince to the Lich King's champion.

Arthas sighed heavily. "When I first took the blade," he said slowly, "I felt an adrenaline unlike anything I'd known. A hunger for vengeance against Mal'Ganis, as was my purpose for taking it. As if all my fear and anger had been condensed into one sharp, cold edge."

He took another deep breath. "And when it claimed my soul right after Mal'Ganis was slain, or at least I thought he was slain," he continued, "I felt a sense of purpose, a direction that was so powerful it drowned out everything else. I was Ner'zhul's weapon, and I reveled in the power he granted me."

Jaina studied him, with a mix of pity and fear. "And of the people you've encountered," she prompted. "What did you feel for them?"

Arthas looked at her, weary in spite of the early hours of the morning. "I felt nothing," he admitted. "No shame, no remorse, no pity. Only a cold, unyielding need to achieve what I believed was convenient. I was lost to the madness of the blade and of Ner'zhul's words."

The room grew quiet as Jaina digested his words. But Arthas," she reasoned softly, "the blade corrupted you. It's not your fault-"

"No," he cut her off firmly, and it was clear to Jaina that he was in pain from the inside. "It didn't just corrupt me, Jaina. I let it. I embraced the power because I was weak. I was selfish. I wanted to save my people, but I was willing to sacrifice everyone else in the process. Even then...I no longer cared for my people if their deaths would suit my purposes."

Her heart clenched but she had to push through. "But you could have tried to fight it," she insisted. "You didn't have to become the Lich King."

"But I did," Arthas said with finality. "I didn't just become the Lich King's pawn; I became his champion. I ripped out my own heart, my own humanity, to become the Lich King myself." he paused. "You saw me do it, Jaina. I could have resisted, but I didn't. I chose power over everything else."

The room was silent for a moment. She took a deep breath and placed her hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "And now...you chose to to reject that fate for the safety of countless others when it was offered again", she pointed out to him.

Arthas felt the warmth of Jaina's hand over his own, and he nodded. "Thank you," he murmured, sincerely apologizing for his earlier despair. "I'm sorry for...for all of this."

She looked at him again and figured of the world his previous life had taken. "What was it like, Arthas?" she asked softly. "The world after you became the Lich King. What happened to everyone?"

He closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again, seeing the need for her to be informed if they're going to make things right. "The world fell to chaos," he began, his voice heavy with regret. "If I have to say so myself, it basically changed the world from the one we saw now. Fortunately or unfortunately, I have Kel'thuzad to keep me informed of the events that happened there after I had him stationed at Naxxramas."

Jaina never heard that name before. "Naxxramas?", she asked in curiosity.

Arthas couldn't help but smile at her eagerness to know. "Just imagine a massive fortress-graveyard where dark magic allowed it to float into the sky.", he told her. "Something like you have told me that the Kirin Tor considered for a time in their own city but Antonidas shot down the idea."

She shuddered at the thought of something massive capable of landing the undead with ease before she shifted her attention back to the first question. "What really happened to Lordaeron after your father...?", she carefully asked

"Lordaeron fell to the Scourge within weeks.", he replied. "The Silver Hand was disbanded when Uther refused to purge Stratholme as I have ordered back then. They tried to hold out. They fought valiantly, but without their leader, their morale was shattered, including Uther."

He paused, the memory of his mentor's face contorting with pain and betrayal haunting him. "Falric and Marwyn had slaughtered much of Lordaeron's command apparatus following my father's death in the Capital City, leaving a Kingdom virtually defenseless and in total chaos. Lord and Baron Othmar Garithos took command of the survivors and what's left of Lordaeron's military...and it wasn't a good image after that."

"What do you mean, Arthas?", the sorceress leaned closer, feeling uneased to imagine the misfortunes that happened after that.

Arthas sighed heavily. "After the fall of Quel'thalas, the High Elves who survived took on a new name: the Blood Elves," he recounted. "They were led by Prince Kael'thas. Even though they fought brilliantly with honor, they faced another enemy: Garithos." He said the name with contempt. "He was a capable commander, yes. He even managed to liberate Dalaran from the Scourge's grip, allowing the Kirin Tor and other human survivors to escape there. But his racism...his hatred for non-humans was paramount. He saw the Blood Elves as nothing but potential threats, despite their willingness to fight alongside the Alliance."

His eyes darkened with remembered contempt. "He treated them poorly, eventually imprisoning them, planning to execute them. If it weren't for Kael'thas and his people's own resourcefulness, they would have met their end at the very hands they thought who would help them free Quel'thalas."

"But why?" Jaina's voice was filled with disbelief. "They had suffered so much, and that just happened?"

"Apparently they didn't know Garithos would be...him. The other Kingdoms sent aid, and they thought he was the last thing connected in what was a goverment to Lordaeron. Also because of Fear," Arthas replied with a shake of his head. "Fear and ignorance. Garithos couldn't see beyond their differences. He was blind to his prejudices that the Elves lost their faith in the Alliance not long after."

"Even in spite of the High Elves leaving the Alliance during the Second War, they did not deserve such fate...", she mumbled in sympathy for Prince Kael and the Elves. "But it didn't end there, didn't it?"

"Indeed.", Arthas took another sip of his water. "Three factions emerged from the ruins, each fighting for dominance. There were those who remained loyal to the Burning Legion, led by the Dreadlord Balnazzar."

Jaina's eyes widened at that. "Wait, another Dreadlord?", she interrupted in disbelief. "Like Mal'Ganis?"

"Yes, and they belong to a race called Nathrezim, a group of scheming, but powerful demons like Mal'Ganis is,", Arthas further explained to her. "But they pale in comparison to the likes of their leader, Tichondrius. And that's not even including lesser Dreadlords like Detheroc and Varimathras."

He took a pause before he continued his narration regarding the power vacuum in Lordaeron. "Then there were the human survivors "under the command of Garithos. They struggled to hold onto what little remained of the kingdom, but their numbers were dwindling, and their leader just had to trust the wrong people."

Jaina leaned closer in disbelief. "Three factions?" she repeated. "What was the third?"

"The third was the most unexpected," he said, inwardly suprised himself as to how Sylvanas would go the long way to make sure her revenge against him would be fulfilled. "The Banshee Queen, the one who had once been part of my own army, broke free from the Lich King's control. She saw an opportunity in the chaos, seeking to build a power base of her own against the Scourge. Her forces were formidable, and she was cunning. In the end, she emerged victorious. Balnazzar was killed, or at least I was told he was killed. And then she turned her sights on Garithos."

Jaina's hand tightened around her mug of tea. "And what of Garithos?"

"He made a fatal mistake trusting her." Arthas said in a neutral tone; he couldn't exactly feel bad for the self-proclaimed Grand Marshal for his blunders. "She had him killed not long after, and with his death, the human resistance in Lordaeron was all but crushed, except for a few pockets who vowed to continue the fight regardless."

He wasn't sure if he could even tell her about the Scarlet Crusade. But even he had limited knowledge of their activities other than their zeal to destroy the undead, even more so about its members; he honestly could care less for them when he reigned as the Lich King. Other than the Grand Crusader and one of the Silver Hand's first Five Paladins, Saidan Dathrohan. Even though Arthas admits that the man was acting out of character that does not line up as to how Saidan would act.

That was a lot to take in for Jaina, but she remembered that Arthas had another member of his family. "But what about Calia? Your sister?"

Arthas took another sip of his water. "Calia...my sister," he gazed upon the open window in deep thought. "After my father's death, she became a figurehead at best. Without the support or backing to truly rule, she was more of a symbol than a queen, and she disappeared not long after."

Jaina's eyes widened with worry. "Is she...is she still alive?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

He nodded solemnly. "If she had perished, I would have felt it," Arthas assured her. "As the Lich King, I was aware of every soul within my grasp. Hers was never among them."

Relief washed over her, but her concern remained. "But if she's not with the Scourge, then where is she?"

"I don't know for certain," he admitted, but his tone was hopeful. "But I suspect she's in hiding, somewhere safe from the chaos that consumed Lordaeron. At least I could take solace to the fact that she is safe, away from the tragedies that happened so sudden."

Jaina looked at Arthas with a furrowed brow, her curiosity piqued. "And what of me, Arthas?" she asked. "What happened to me during all of this?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes meeting hers with a heavy gaze. Should he tell of her role? He was concerned on how she might react to this. And if he indeed told her, he did not want to give an illusion that they would eventually win against Archimonde, when the possibility of making decisions that would prove detrimental is up in the air.

But if there was one thing he knew about Jaina, she is smart enough not to make such mistakes. "After the fall of Dalaran and the destruction of Quel'Thalas, you went to west, following the advice of the Prophet," Arthas began.

"The same one that spoke to you?", she asked in curiosity. She could still remember their last conversation at Stratholme, where Arthas had promised him to head west right after he had dealt with the plague. As well as the man who may have an idea of Arthas hiding his secrets from her before they had that falling out to the docks before leaving for Northrend.

"Yes, I rejected his advice in my previous life. But you followed it wisely, where you and the survivors went there and you fought the Horde under command of the new Warchief Thrall in several occasions.", he told her.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "The Horde?"

He nodded. "Initially, your arrival was met with hostility. The Orcs had only recently been freed from the Burning Legion's control, and the Night Elves saw both of you as invaders. But the Prophet, he saw the greater threat and convinced both sides to put aside their differences."

"How did he do that?" she wondered, her voice filled with amazement.

"With much difficulty and persuasion," Arthas replied. "But eventually, you all saw eye-to-eye and united against the Legion." His expression grew grim. "You fought alongside them, and together, you faced the demon lord Archimonde at Mount Hyjal. The fate of the world was at stake there."

"And what of the Night Elves?" she prompted, eager to hear more.

"They were led by Malfurion Stormrage and Tyrande Whisperwind," Arthas said with admiration. "Their aid was invaluable. Despite their initial reluctance, they recognized the necessity of an alliance."

"And the outcome?" she urged.

"You all managed to defeat Archimonde," Arthas answered her. "It was a turning point. With the Demon Lord dead, the Legion's power waned. The world had a chance to breathe again, to recover from the brink of destruction."

Jaina sat in silence, absorbing the information. "I can't believe it," she murmured. "All these years, and I've never known..."

He gave her a small, sad smile. "I know, but that doesn't mean you have to be confident at such matters. The Legion always had a few tricks that remain untested" Arthas said. "But even then, it's the best outcome we could ask for."

Jaina took a deep breath, preparing herself for the next question she needed to ask. "And my father, Daelin Proudmoore," she whispered to him. "What became of him and Kul'Tiras during all this?"

Arthas paused for a moment. If I told her now...would she even consider cooperating with the Horde when they need to unite against the Legion if it happened again?, he thought. He knew the truth would be too much for her to bear, so he chose his words carefully. "Your father remained a steadfast leader in his own right," explained to her. "He held Kul'Tiras together, keeping it safe from the Scourge and the Legion."

"And he's still...he's still alive?" she asked, hope lighting her features.

Arthas nodded. "Yes," he lied, well technically Daelin did survive the war. It's the aftermath that what took him away. "He's alive. And I believe he would be proud of the woman you've become."

Jaina felt a weight lift from her chest. "Thank you," she murmured. "I'm glad that he is safe."

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he knew that for now, it was for the best. The truth of Daelin's fate could come later, when she was ready to handle it.

And that's just some of what he knew. But for now, she seemed satisfied, though he knew he had to answer her again if she asked.

Later above deck, the brisk sea air filled Arthas's lungs as he stepped out of the cabin, the salty breeze a stark contrast to the stale air of his confinement. Falric and Muradin, who were busy with the ship's affairs, spotted him and rushed over, their faces a mix of relief and concern.

"My prince," Falric said, bowing slightly. "We feared the worst."

"I'm well enough," Arthas assured him, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "And it was thanks to all of you."

Muradin clasped his shoulder. "We're just a few days out from Lordaeron," the dwarf informed him. "It'll be good to set foot on solid ground again."

"Home," Arthas murmured, the word resonating with longing and a hint of dread. "Yes, it will be good to go home."

"And what of you, Muradin?" Falric asked, changing the subject. "Eager to return to Ironforge, I presume?"

Muradin nodded, his beard bobbing with the movement. "Aye," he said with a gruff chuckle. "Been too long since I saw the warm fires and good ale of the city."

Arthas managed a smile, the thought of returning to their homelands bringing a glimmer of hope to his eyes. "We've all earned some rest," he said, looking at his comrades. "But first, we must ensure that what I've seen does not come to pass. We must be vigilant."

The two men nodded in agreement, the gravity of the situation not lost on them. Falric spoke up. "We will be, your Highness," he said firmly. "Where is Lady Jaina, sire?"

"Lady Jaina is below deck, composing a report for the Kirin Tor regarding our recent...discoveries," Arthas informed them, keeping the details vague. He noticed Captain Marwyn nearby, scribbling furiously on a parchment. "And it seems Captain Marwyn is busy with his own correspondence," he added with a small smile, watching as the man paused to dip his quill in the inkwell.

"Writing a letter to Lady Faerlina Bloomfield.", Falric informed him. "It appears he took a liking of her after he had inadvertently saved her life from the Cult of the Damned at Stratholme when he was gathering information on Baron Rivendare."

Arthas's eyes widened slightly at Falric's revelation about Captain Marwyn's letter. "Faerlina Bloomfield?" he murmured to himself, recalling the fate of the grand widow in his previous life. Arthas couldn't help but be taken aback by the revelation. In his own timeline, Lady Bloomfield was the Grand Widow of Naxxramas under Kel'thuzad, and a mistress of poisons, making her a formidable asset to the Scourge.

"I suppose some destinies are indeed rewritten," he mused aloud. The thought brought a small measure of comfort to his soul, a reminder that not all paths led to the same end then he turned to Falric again. "And the rest?"

"Some have their own reasons to be eager for our return," he said. "Thassarian is keen to see his mother again in the Tirisfal Glades, and Captain Valonforth longs for the comfort of his family in Strahnbrand," Falric reported.

Arthas felt a pang of guilt at the mention of their names. In his previous life, he had personally claimed these men as his own, turning them into mindless servants of the Scourge.

Perhaps among the worst deeds he had made, was forcing Thassarian to kill his own mother when he turned him into a Death Knight.

But now, he was only glad that these men finally had a different fate, away from being mass murderers in his name.

Perhaps Jaina is right. He could still change what lies before them.

Muradin, noticing the pensive look on Arthas' face, broke the silence. "What about that Dreadlord, lad?" he rumbled. "Ye seem to know a bit more than ye're lettin' on."

Arthas sighed. "It's a long story, Muradin," he said, his voice heavy with weariness. "But I promise you, we will deal with him and of Frostmourne. But for now," he turned to face his friend, "we need rest. You all deserve it."

Muradin grunted, his hand reflexively rubbing his bruised ribs. "Aye, I reckon," he said. "But I've got a bone to pick with his demonic arse. He's got a debt to pay for what he did to me."

"And you'll your chance," Arthas assured him. "But not today. Today, we rest."

The three of them stood in quiet contemplation for a moment longer before Falric broke the silence. "If you'll excuse me, my Prince," he said, his eyes flicking to Muradin and then back to Arthas. "I'll go check on our course. We wouldn't want to miss our destination, after all."

The dwarf nodded, having a little difficulty moving with his cane. "I'll join ye in a bit," he said. "Got some things to ponder over."

As Falric left, Arthas turned to Muradin. "Take care of yourself, old friend," he said, his voice filled with genuine concern. "We've been through a lot. But we could expect a lot more to come along the way."

Muradin gave him a firm nod. "Aye, I will," he said. "But that doesn't mean ya shouldn't do that too! Given your arm!"

Arthas smiled but dropped as soon as he looked on his right arm when Muradin left, extensively hidden than what he would have preferred to. He returned to his cabin, where stared at his right arm, even with the gloves, gauntlets and even bracers hiding the unnatural cold that emanated from it. It's power resurfaced unwanted memories into his mind, as much as he wanted to forget them.

He looked to find a dead rat lay motionless on the floor, a casualty of the ship's pest control. With a grim look, he focused his will upon it, channeling the dark energy that still lingered within him. The creature's tiny form began to twitch, then rise, its lifeless eyes flickering with an eerie blue glow. Arthas's chest tightened as he watched the rat become a tiny, undead minion.

He was by all means, disgusted. But he knew had to live with it for the time being. Preferably if the Scourge has been dealt with before he could try and find anything that could cure his arm and pemanently remove Ner'zhul's influence into his body.

With a swift motion, he tossed the reanimated creature into the cabin's incinerator, the metal door slamming shut with a finality that echoed through the room. The flames consumed the rat, reducing it to ashes, along with the lingering lifeforce it had.

Arthas sighed. He knew that concealing his tainted arm from Uther and the Silver Hand would be a challenge. The stigma of necromancy was something that could not be easily dismissed, even with Jaina's support. Her support and acceptance offered him a semblance of hope, but the mistrustful gazes of comrades were etched in his memory.

In the Capital City, Arthas had opted to separate from Falric, Muradin Jaina and the rest, to visit the refugees from various parts of Lordaeron before returning to his father. Be it, Southshore, Heartglen and Stratholme, who managed to evacuate safely behind the capital's walls. It was almost surreal for him to return here without any motive in mind.

He walked to find Lord Goodwin, the same person who had replaced Rivendare as Stratholme's leader when the latter's association of the Cult of the Damned was uncovered. And the one who inadvertently spread the plague in the city by accident. Arthas no longer had any anger or grudge to the elder statesman, as he had acted in the best interest of the people. He saw the apologetic look of the man's face as the Prince approached him, bowing in respect.

The statesman looked up as Arthas approached, still feeling the guilt of what happened to the city. "Your Highness," he began, his voice trembling slightly as he rose to his feet, "I offer my most sincere apologies for what happened at Stratholme. I wish I have been vigilant of my surroundings and of my post."

Arthas regarded the man with a blend of compassion and determination. "Lord Goodwin, there is no need for apologies," he assured. "We are all shaped by the choices we make, and we can only work to make sure such mistakes aren't repeated." He paused looking at the refugees, many of whom are huddled, in contemplation and uncertainty of their future. "How are they faring?"

Feeling relief and gratitude, Goodwin took a deep breath. "They are in good health, thanks to the tireless efforts of the Kirin Tor and the healers," he replied. "We have established a rigorous system of checks to ensure that the plague does not spread. They are being cared for as best as we can manage."

Arthas nodded in approval. "That is a comfort to hear," he said, his eyes reflecting his concern for the people he had failed in his previous life. He looked over to find a blond haired girl, a young teenager, sat in a tuck position with a bloody dagger on one hand, and looking as if she had gone through so much.

In the corner of the room, she looked hollow and haunted. Arthas felt an overwhelming sense of pity and empathy at the sight of her; such sights were very uncommon when he rampaged all throughout Lordaeron. He approached Lord Goodwin, his gaze never leaving the girl.

"What is her story?" Arthas asked of him, where Goodwin's face grew sadder as he recounted the girl's tragic tale.

"Her family, like many others, was caught in the chaos of the outbreak near Southshore. As the infection spread through her village, she watched her loved ones fall one by one to the curse. The horror didn't end there, for when they rose again as mindless undead, she was left with no choice but to end their suffering."

Arthas felt his heart crack as he listened to the man's words, the girl's plight resonating with his own haunted past. He knew the pain of being consumed by the need to protect those you love, and the guilt that follow right after. "Has anyone tried to help her?" Arthas inquired.

The elder statesman sighed. "Aye, we've sent priests and counselors, but she won't let anyone near," he replied. "She thinks we're all like the monsters she had to slay. The poor girl is lost in her own grief and fear."

Moved by her suffering, he knew he had to reach out to her, to show that not all hope was lost, and that there were still those who understood what she went through. With careful steps, he approached the girl.

The girl's wide, tear-stained eyes darted up to meet the Prince's, filled with a mix of fear and defiance. She clutched the dagger tightly. His heart ached at the sight of her, so young and already scarred by the horrors of war. He knelt down slowly, keeping his movements deliberate and non-threatening.

He knelt down before the traumatized girl, carefully and soothingly minding the way he moved. She looked upon his gazed, filled with a warmth she hadn't seen in ages. He reached out and gently pried the blood-soaked dagger from her trembling grasp. "It's okay," he promised her. "You don't have to be afraid."

She stared at him, whatever hope she had clashing against the pain, rage and grief she had with her. Arthas offered a small, understanding smile. He paused, studying her closely. "What's your name, little one?"

The girl kept looking for any hint of malice, but finding only kindness. "S-Sally...", she told answered him. Her eyes widened in recognition as she whispered, "You're... you're Prince Arthas." He nodded solemnly in return.

"You're very perceptive, Sally," he gently remarked. His voice was filled with genuine remorse. "I...I wish I could have been there..."

Sally stared at him, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. "Then why weren't you?" she asked with accusation. "Why did you leave us?"

Arthas was taken back. This was such questions that tormented him into trying to achieve justice and vengeance against the likes of Mal'Ganis. He took a deep breath. "Sally, I wish with all my heart that I could have been everywhere to make sure that no one will have to go through the pain you had," he regretted. "It was something that no single person could hope to stand against it alone." He reached out and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, feeling the tremble of her tiny frame beneath his touch. "Which is why I couldn't bring myself to stop until I could see that everyone is safe."

"Do you have anyone else, Sally?" Arthas asked softly, looking for any semblance of comfort she could find in this world torn apart by the Scourge. "Anyone you could stay with, a family member or a friend?"

Her eyes searched his, the depth of his question resonating in the silence between them. "There's... there's only Renault," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "My friend. He... he's all I have left now."

'Renault?', Arthas thought with familiarity of the name. The only other person that he knew of that name is the son of Alexandros Morgraine, Highlord of the Silver Hand. "Is his name, Renault Morgraine by any chance?", he asked.

Sally nodded slowly. "Yes, that's him," she said, her voice barely audible over the clamor of the camp. "But I don't know where he is, and I have nowhere to go. I'm all alone, and it's all because of me." Her voice broke as she spoke, feeling the guilt of surviving but not her own family because of her.

"Sally, you are not to blame for what happened," he said, his voice firm and comforting. "The undead and the plague are a terrible force, one that none of us could have foreseen or stopped single-handedly." He took a deep breath, and solemnly looked at her. "But you are strong. Stronger than you know. And you are not alone."

She looked out to him for any of the truth in his words. "But I am," she insiste. "I had to... I had to kill them. My own family. I couldn't save them."

"There are always people looking out for you, Sally," Arthas assured her as he tried to ease the burden of her grief. "Even when it feels like there's no one left, there is still hope, still a light in the darkness."

Her eyes searched his, desperate for any sincerity in his words. "Would you look out for me too?" she asked tentatively, the question hanging in the air like a prayer.

Arthas's gaze softened as he took her trembling hand in his. "I will," he promised sincerely. "And not just me, but the people of Lordaeron."

Sally's eyes widened at the sincerity of his pledge. "You... you really mean it?" she whispered, the first spark of hope lighting her desolate expression.

"You have my word," Arthas said solemnly, offering his hand to her. "As long as I live, I will do everything in my power to ensure that no one else suffers as you have."

She took his hand and stood up where he smiled at her; it was returned by a weary one from her. Arthas turned to Lord Goodwin. "See that she gets the care she needs," he instructed. "I'm entrusting her to you."

The elderly man obliged with no question. "Of course, Your Highness," he assured.

Arthas then took a piece of parchment and a quill from his pocket where he quickly scribbled a letter. "When you find Renault," he said, handing the letter to Goodwin, "have him read this. It's for his father, Highlord Morgraine. It's important that he knows she's alive and in our care."

Goodwin took the letter and nodded. "I will ensure it reaches him," he promised.

"Thank you," the Prince said, his eyes never leaving Sally's. That is all I ask from you."

With that, Arthas rose to his feet and made his way out of the tent, leaving Sally in good hands. It was time to return to the others and meet with his father.

The procession through the bustling streets of Capital City was filled with cheers and chants of relief as the people caught sight of their heroes returning from Northrend. Arthas walked alongside Jaina and the others as the city's residents threw flowers and waved banners, and they were estatic to see their Prince and his comrades return home from an evidently succesful expedition.

Which isn't really the case, but his purpose as it was known in public was to rescue Muradin. So, it could be considered a success nonetheless.

Even amidst the celebrations, Arthas was uncertain. He clenched his right hand and feeling the cold despite multiple layers of gloves and gauntlets beneath his short blue shoulder cape concealed the marks he had from Northrend, constantly tormenting him of the fate he narrowly avoided there.

Jaina glanced at him, nudging him by left hand. "Are you alright, Arthas?", she worriedly asked of him, noticing his silence.

He only looked at the path ahead of him "It feels... strange," he admitted, feeling he had missed something. "To return to these lands without the having to be...something else is something I never thought possible."

Jaina offered him a warm smile, squeezing his uncovered left hand gently. "And you're right, Arthas," she assured him. "This time, you're coming back as everyone knew of you." Her eyes searched his, her belief in him unwavering.

In the grand throne room of Lordaeron, anticipation is at its highest procession reached its climax. King Terenas beamed at the sight of his Crown Prince, standing up from his throne.. "My son," he whispered, "I feared the worst. Thank the Light you've returned to us." He drew back to look at Arthas, before shifting to the dwarf standing stoically beside him. "I see that your mission has been a success."

Arthas nodded solemnly to look at Terenas. "Indeed, it was, Father," he replied in earnest. "And I bring good news for King Magni. His brother, Muradin, is safe along with his men stranded at Northrend." He gestured towards the dwarf, who offered a respectful bow to the king. Muradin's eyes shone with pride as he confirmed the Prince's words. "The expedition is no longer in peril, but the strategic position there is still very questionable at best."

Turning to Jaina, Terenas offered her a warm smile of relief and gratitude. "Lady Proudmoore," he said, his voice carrying across the hall. "I am deeply grateful for accompanying my son in these trying times." He remarked. "I'm sure Lord Admiral Daelin will be relieved to hear that his daughter has returned unscathed. And," he added, "that Lord Uther was wise in having you go with him."

Jaina returned the smile, though she remained concerned for Arthas. "I appreciate the sentiment, Your Highness. But it was a very difficult journey if I say so myself."

"Indeed, Father. It was a skirmish with the undead," he said, his gaze shifting away from her. "Those who sought to spread the plague on our homeland."

King Terenas studied his son's face, the pride in his eyes tinged with a hint of concern. "I trust you handled it with the honor and valor of the Light," he said, his voice firm. "But it appears there is much more than a rescue mission, is it not?"

"Indeed, Father," Arthas replied, his tone measured. "We encountered heavy resistance, but we were able to overcome them and secure the safety of our comrades, thanks to their assistance and bravery." He gestured to his companions and the men with him while he made sure to keep his right arm hidden within the folds of his cape.

Muradin stepped forward, his voice gruff but steady. "Aye, that we did. The boy's got more mettle than the whole darned lot of 'em. Didn't flinch once, even when the dead started climbing outta their graves like it was a festival day." His bearded face broke into a proud smile as he clapped Arthas on the back.

King Terenas could sense there was more to the tale, but something in his son's eyes told him that now was not the time for the full truth. He stepped down from his throne, feeling his responsibilities forgetten as he approached his son. The distance between them closed, and for a long moment, they simply stared into each other. Arthas felt his own guilt coming back, threatening to spill over. But suddenly, Terenas opened his arms and enveloped Arthas in a warm embrace. "Welcome home, my son," he whispered. "I've missed you dearly."

Home.

The word resonated in Arthas's heart. It almost felt foreign even. A home that did not require the suffering of others nor it demands power. But in the embrace of a family. He felt the warmth of a father's love that he had so cruelly stolen in his previous life. He returned the hug with all the strength he had, fighting back the tears that burned in his eyes. "I've missed you too, Father," he managed to say amidst the turmoil that dwell within. "And I am...glad to be home."

Jaina watched the heartwarming scene unfold before her, feeling with the joy and pain she knew Arthas felt as she held her chest. She wished with all her being that she could share in the warmth of this reunion. But she knew that this moment was for them—father and son—to heal wounds that had never been dealt. And so she remained silent, her eyes dripping a few tears of happiness for the man she loved. This was it.

He was finally home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 7: Preparations

Later as the sun began to set, at the training grounds of the Lordaeron Army's barracks, Arthas looked at the lined up members of the 1st Legion, soldiers who came with him at Northrend and in his previous life, his very first undead army.

But no longer. He had called them for this meeting for a reason. To show his gratitude for coming with him in his mission as well as to make sure their hardships and their bravery do not go unrewarded, and it warmed his heart to know that these men came with him to hell and went out with them. And he could not have asked better soldiers in his life. With Falric beside him holding a large wooden box, containing medals adorned with the blue and gold ribbons of Lordaeron's colors, he walked to each soldier that survived, pinning those very medals at their tunics as a sign of his gratitude to them.

But then, there was this one particular soldier. Corporal Thassarian, one of the men who went with Falric and Baelgun in retrieving the Siege Engines and broke the undead siege at Muradin's encampment and the vanguard that held off undead scouts during the evacuation. Falric described him as 'one of the bravest soldiers' he had ever seen, faithfully serving his homeland with an exceptional skill in the blade that would have made him a candidate for the Silver Hand. Arthas knew that this recognition was long overdue.

He stood in front of the Corporal, who remained stone-faced and unmoving at the the sight of his Prince in front of him. Arthas couldn't help but admire the young man's dedication to duty. "Thassarian," he called out, and he soldier snapped to attention. Arthas pinned the medal upon his chest. "You have faced the worse of what the world has thrown to you, yet you remained steadfast and unwavering in the line of duty. Your bravery has proven to be a great example that we could aspire for."

The soldier's composure cracked as he received the honor. "Thank you, my Prince," he managed to murmur.

Arthas smiled at his composure. "Therefore, in these trying times, I am certain that the men would greatly learn from you. And I trust that you are more than capable of leading these men out of these trying times.", he patted the man's arm a few times. "Lieutenant."

Thassarian's eyes widened, touching new insignia on his shoulder. Was he serious? He couldn't hold back his visage anymore. His dream of supporting his family and giving them a better life had just come a step closer. "I-I can't," he stammered, his voice choking. "I...I will not disappoint, your Highness."

"I am certain you would. Your father would be so proud," Arthas continued with a smile. "You've earned it, son. Don't ever forget that."

Arthas stepped on a small podium while Thassarian's fellow soldiers watched him with respect and admiration. Inwardly, Arthas was relieved, knowing that he now had a much brighter future ahead of him. "Wipe your tears, Lieutenant," he instructed gently, and one of his men gave him a handkerchief. "We have much to prepare for."

Taking a deep breath. He called out to the troops before him, with Falric and Marwyn flanking him with their hands behind their backs. "Soldiers of the 1st Legion, you went to treacherous territory that many of you have not ventured. You have fought the unimaginable. Battle creatures born from our worst nightmares. Defeated terrors of the frost and decay. Gone toe-to-toe with ancient monstrosities beyond the grave. But no matter what threat you all faced, I knew that none of us are facing it alone, as those of the past have done. If only a couple months ago, you were all simply soldiers. But as I stand before all of you, you are warriors. Heroes. Protectors."

The men looked up to their leader as his words resonated with them. Many struggled to maintain disciplined expressions, but they all faltered as their Prince saw them more than just soldiers whose purpose is to only serve. "Protectors ready to answer Lordaeron's call in its darkest hour. Champions ready to risk their lives to keep this kingdom safe. All inspired by those who keep moving forward to lead the way so that those behind them, may do the same."

His heart swelled in pride. He knew that Northrend was the first of many ordeals they'll go through from here. But in his eyes, these men are amongst who have the strongest wills. And the firmest hearts. "Do not mistake it. There will be moments of fear. Doubt. Uncertainty. But in those times, have faith. That the soul of Lordaeron lives within us, and that I am proud and honored to have you as my brothers."

In a moment's notice, one of the soldiers shouted with all his lungs. "For Lordaeron!"

The rest followed in unison not long after. "FOR LORDAERON!", they chanted it like a prayer. Arthas knew this was just the beginning.

Mal'Ganis clutched the arched wound that cut through his armor, seething in anger as body was wracked with pain from the wounds that the Prince had inflicted onto him, but Ner'zhul was unable to obtain his soul through the runeblade as he would've hoped for. It didn't make any sense, how does it seem that the Prince has managed resist the Orc shaman's hold onto him when it should have sealed his fate at that very moment? Ner'zhul himself remained quiet, likely not wanting to to explain his own failure to take the Prince's soul. But as one of its jailers, Mal'Ganis knew that he had to make sure the Lich King's purpose is carried out.

"Your grand scheme is in tatters," Mal'Ganis jerked in surprise as he recognized the voice of Tichondrius, who materialized before him. He looked up to find the glare of his superior. "You have failed," he bellowed in contempt.

"The prince," Mal'Ganis spat out, "his will is stronger than we anticipated. He sought to destroy the blade, not wield it in spite of everything he went through. So I tried to have the mage become its host if it meant for him to break."

His superior looked unfazed, but also question if such a thing was possible. "Your underestimation is costly," he pointed out calmly. "Our master's patience is not infinite, and your failure is... unacceptable."

Mal'Ganis clenched his fists in response. "He will not be allowed to stand in our way again," he declared, even though he knew that Tichondrius was already having little faith in his design. "I can make this right..."

"His turn was meant to be the catalyst for the Scourge," Tichondrius turned to explain, "but without him, our approach must evolve." His gaze drifted to the runeblade, picking it up and placing it back to its pedestal, knowing that Ner'zhul would not be as foolish as to try and take his soul. "His presence poses a risk to our plan that we can no longer tolerate, therefore he must be eliminated before he could grow any stronger."

"And who will take his place as Ner'zhul's champion?" Mal'Ganis growled, though his anger not entirely directed to his superior before him. "And without him to retrieve Kel'thuzad..."

"I have several candidates in mind, each more pliable than the last if the Prince chose to reject the path before him.", Tichondrius assured him. "And as for Kel'Thuzad, I have a plan that would ensure that he would return to our side. He will not be denied of his true purpose of the Legion."

The leader's eyes narrowed, looking down at Mal'Ganis. "From this moment forth, I shall take command of the Scourge," he declared in a tone that commanded no further argument from him. "Your... missteps have left us in a precarious position. I expect nothing but your full cooperation, or face the consequences."

Mal'Ganis clenched his teeth. "What of our troops?" he hissed. "Without the prince to slaughter the troops who came with him, we do not have the means to launch a full-scale invasion of the kingdoms."

"Do not worry of such trivialities, Mal'Ganis," Tichondrius said, raising a hand to silence any further protest. "I have foreseen the need for such contingencies. Organize of what remained of the Scourge and inform them of the new chain of command. I will be heading elsewhere to speak with a few acquaintances along with Detheroc. I have need for his expertise."

Mal'Ganis only look down in frustration and anger. "As you wish, Tichondrius.", he bellowed before he teleported away. That human prince will pay for this humiliation.

Three days since they have arrived back in Lordaeron, many of the soldiers who returned are granted leave. The warm embrace of the city's lights and the comfort of familiar cobblestone streets were a stark contrast to the treacherous climate of Northrend. Falric noticed Marwyn looking around for something, or rather someone where he playfully nudged him with his elbow. "Look at you, on the prowl for your soulmate, I suspect?", he asked with a smirk.

His subordinate rolled his eyes in response. "Falric. I've got more pressing matters than to chase after a flower girl.", he answered back.

"I wasn't talking about her until you mentioned it, Marwyn.", the Captain quipped. "Her beauty is as potent as her potions and the gardens she manage, I wager."

Marwyn's cheeks flushed a faint red, and just as he opened his mouth to protest, a familiar voice called out from a newly established flower shop. "Marwyn!"

They turned to find Faerlina, rushing towards them. Her eyes brightening when she saw Marwyn, and she threw her arms around him, the scent of fresh flowers and earth enveloping him. "You're safe," she breathed, her grip tightening. "I've been worried sick about you."

Marwyn felt his cheeks grow warm under her embrace, forgetting his earlier denial. Falric coughed, pretending to look away while Marwyn fumbled to regain his composure. "I'm fine, Lady Bloomfield," he managed, patting her back awkwardly. "I've received your letters, and I thank you for your concern for me while we were at Northrend."

Falric leaned closer, whispering into Marwyn's ear. "And I say it helped your survive all that,", before turning to face the woman with a smile. "Welcome home, Captain," he mused, patting him on the back. "I dare say Lady Bloomfield has missed you."

His colleague glared at him, as it was cleared the Falric enjoyed the sight. "It's alright," she giggled, pulling away and smoothing her dress. "I'm just relieved you're safe."

Marwyn cleared his throat. "As am I, Lady Bloomfield," he said, his formality a stark contrast to her informality. "I trust the city has been treating you well in our absence?"

She eagerly nodded in reply. "They have and I recently moved in to set up my shop. After hearing what the Baron Rivendare and House of Barov have been doing, I couldn't help but wonder where I could've ended up as if I did take their offer onto their household...", she recounted. "But after we've met that night, I could never show how grateful I am for you making sure I didn't end up with their schemes, and saving many lives in Stratholme."

Their reunion was abruptly interrupted by the sound of shattering glass and a dwarf's roar. "Ya call this the strongest!? I say you're all lightweighted pansies!" Falric recognized the voice—Baelgun had stumbled into a tavern nearby and was already stirring up trouble when a chair was thrown out of a window. Falric sighed, rolling his eyes at the sight of the drunken dwarf. "Looks like Baelgun's decided to celebrate without us."

Marwyn was about to intervene "Let me handle our friend over there," Falric said, slapping Marwyn on the back. "You two lovebirds enjoy your reunion. I'll make sure he doesn't start any more trouble than he already has."

Marwyn flushed even deeper, his protests of "We're not—" dying in his throat as Falric nodded at Faerlina and went off towards the tavern. The botanist giggled, the sound light and infectious, and for a moment, Marwyn just felt he was really home.

The botanist looked down to find her hand still intertwined together, where her cheeks flaired pink, as did Marwyn. "Could you tell me what happened at your expedition, Marwyn? I heard Northrend didn't have the friendliest winds.", she asked of him, a bit nervously.

Marwyn, not sure what to do, glanced over at Falric who only nodded at him in encouragement while he went to the tavern. "I have a few, but perhaps maybe we could talk about it over a stroll? I beckon you haven't live here, Lady Bloomfield."

Faerlina beamed at that and breathed out in relief. "O-of course, Marwyn.", she then gave him a tender smile. "And please, you can call me 'Lina."

The younger captain smiled bashfully. "Alright, Lina."

Falric approached his drunken counterpart who looked he could barely walk on his own. "What's this, then?" the Captain asked, watching Baelgun wobble precariously before faceplanting into the cobblestones with a thud. "Couldn't handle a few mugs of Lordaeron's finest?"

The dwarf grunted, trying to push himself up, only to collapse again. "These... ales," he slurred, his hand flailing in the direction of the tavern. "They call this ale? It's barely stronger than what they brew at Ironforge and they easily pass out!"

Falric couldn't help but laugh as he bent down to lift the unconscious dwarf. "Come on, old friend," he said, hoisting Baelgun over his shoulder with a grunt. "Let's get you back to the Ironforge embassy before you cause any more trouble for the city watch."

"The celebration's over?" Baelgun mumbled. "It's just getting started!"

"And it'll be waiting for you when you're sober," Falric assured him. "Or at least, when you wake up."

Within the castle gardens of Lordaeron, the scent of blooming roses filled the air as the soft whispers of a gentle breeze danced among the leaves of trees. Arthas and Jaina had strolled along a cobblestone path, with the warmth of the early sun giving the both of them a sense of tranquility. In spite of what they went through, they remained as one, now that they have a bigger problem to deal with that took the for of how to deal with the impending threat of the Scourge and later the Legion.

"Jaina, have you been... well?", he asked in a genuine, concerning tone, still remembering the memory of her near-possession by Frostmourne back at Northrend.

The sorceress looked back at him, nodding. "I am, Arthas. But I have toadmit, I am worried about you." She paused, looking down at his concealed arm. "I have to return to Dalaran soon to report our findings to the Kirin Tor. They will want to know about what we found at Andorhal, Stratholme and later at Northrend. And if we're lucky, we might find any solution to combat the plague and the undead."

It was better than nothing, and he knew she had to return to Antonidas soon. "I'll have to remain here," he said, "For the meantime. There's no telling when the Scourge or any of the Dreadlords will come back."

Her gaze snapped to his face. "But are you sure you can handle it, Arthas?", Jaina earnestly asked of him. Leaving him alone in both Stratholme and Northrend was what made things really bad in his previous life. And he was still human at that time. Now that he is partially infected by Frostmourne's power in his right arm, she wasn't sure if she's going to take her chance at leaving him.

"I'll have Uther to keep me in check.", Arthas promised her, before his hand went to his neck to reveal a familiar object to her that made her heart swell. "And if I need you, I know where to find you."

Jaina reached out and took his left hand in hers, giving it a comforting squeeze as she gently placed her locket back into his tunic. "Please, just be strong for me.", she asked him. "I don't want either of us to lose our way like had before."

Arthas offered a weak smile in return. But it fell shortly. "Can you be honest with me...when you saw through my mind...what did you feel?"

Jaina looked down, feeling her eyes swelling as both of them took a seat on one of the benches. "When I saw what happened," she began, "I felt my own world fall apart from all that I knew. I was angry. Broken. Scared. The horrors you endured, the lives you took, the love and friendship you've lost...it was all so overwhelming."

She paused, looking at her hand as if it has the answer. "I want to be afraid of you, perhaps hate you," she admitted. "But then after seeing everything you've done to make sure that it won't happen again and how true you were to it, I choose to try and believe you."

Her gaze grew more intense. "You made terrible mistakes, Arthas and you regretted every one of them. You've given so much already, and I can't bear the thought of you going through that again.."

Arthas looked at her,. "And what of you, Jaina?" he asked softly. "What did you feel when you saw...me?"

She looked at him once more. "I saw the monster you had become," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But I also saw the pain and regret that you have, the man who was lost beneath to the Lich King. And in that moment, I realized that you needed help, not fear or hatred."

Her hand tightened around his. "And if you're really here to change what has happened then, then I know that this isn't something that you could do alone. Which is why I know I can't let you go that easily."

He looked down at their joined hands. "Thank you. For understanding, for not turning away.", he whispered.

"Never," she softly, but firmly said to him. "I've made a promise to you, Arthas. And I intend to keep it."

It was silent after that, only intruded by the sound the rustle of leaves and the distant cries of the city beyond the garden walls. But in that quiet moment, their bond grew stronger, fueled by a shared determination to prevent any more tragedies that befell them.

"But still...what should we do, Arthas?", Jaina asked him, not getting the full picture as to how to prevent the Legion coming over to Azeroth. "If we are to alter the future?"

Arthas nodded thoughtfully, cupping his chin and trying to make the best of what he knew. "The Burning Legion coming over has several prerequisites that are needed to make it possible," he explained to her. "And if we can manage to at least deal with any of them, then we might have a chance."

The sorceress agreed with him, but she felt she was missing a few key points. "But first, what can you tell me about the Legion? Or their leaders?", Jaina queried in curiosity. "I only heard from Antonidas during his own experiences against them during the Second War when he fought with the Sons of Lothar."

Arthas took a moment to think. "The Legion is vast, innumerable army of demons and other corrupted races whose sole purpose of the is destroy life, and its influence has been very noticeable in the First, Second and Third Wars. Even the High Elves have heard stories from them, with Archimonde being the one who slew Malorne, their patron god and the father of Cenarius, the Demigod of Ashenvale during the War of the Ancients."

Jaina took a moment to think. "I could vaguely recall reading about him back then, when we first visited Quel'thalas. Is he also the Lich King's master?"

The Prince shook his head. "No, that role goes to Kil'Jaeden the Deceiver, the co-ruler of the Burning Legion. Though unlike Archimonde who would gladly just kill you and be on his way, Kil'Jaeden is someone who would literally torture you and rip you apart piece by piece until he even manages to break your soul, like he did with the Orc Ner'zhul that turned him to the Lich King. Though comparing on who is the worse among the two is not something I'd rather engage about"

The sorceress shuddered, almost feeling the need to sympathize him until she remembered what he had done in the present. "What was his deal with this...Kil'Jaeden?"

Arthas sighed. Given that he did fuse with Ner'zhul when he put on the Helm of Domination, he had seen his memories too. None of it were pleasing. "For context, Ner'zhul was once part of the Shadowmoon clan and was deceived by Kil'Jaeden into thinking the Draenei were enemies."

"Draenei?", Jaina interrupted out of curioisity, a little sheepish in doing so.

"Future allies of yours.", he explained to her before he continued. "So when Ner'zhul learned his errors and tried to undo them, Kil'Jaeden punished him for his defiance, breaking him and his mind until he had become the Lich King. So when the Orcs failed during the Second War, the Legion decided that the Scourge be used instead, where Kil'Jaeden offered him freedom and a new body if he do as he wished, even sending in the Dreadlords Mal'Ganis, Tichondrius, Detheroc, Varimathras and Balnazzar as his jailers to make sure he does his job. All the while unknown to them, Ner'zhul was plotting his revenge, and he wished for the Scourge to conquer the whole world to face the Legion and make it impenetrable against possible invasion."

Jaina was at a loss of words, registering the information. "I didn't know it holds so much history and intrigue behind the scenes...", she whispered, wondering how would Antonidas or the rest of the Alliance leaders would react to such an information. "So when Archimonde died, how did he took it?"

"He was not happy, to put it bluntly.", Arthas cotinued to narration. "So when Archimonde died, Ner'zhul figured he could assert his independence further, with me acting as his champion at this time. And he started to refuse Kil'Jaeden's summons. When Kil'Jaeden realize that he needed to destroy the Frozen Throne, he decided to have a demon do it for him."

Jaina leaned in. "Who is it?"

Arthas sighed. "Illidan Stormrage, Malfurion's brother. I'm sure you never heard of him, so I'll just make this quick.", he told her before continuing. "I...turned him into a demon by convincing him in taking forbidden power that allowed him to kill Tichondrius, which the primary reason was to rob the Legion one of its finest tacticians and jailers. And probably in the case for you, the Horde and the Night Elves, as well at Mount Hyjal. He later tried destroying the Frozen Throne and he failed, even though destroying it would result in dire consequences."

Either Yogg-Saron being freed from his prison, even though neither he as the Lich King and the God of Death do anything particular to each other; they simply let the other do as they wish as long as it does not cross the line, well whatever that line is. Or the Scourge rampaging all throughout Azeroth because there is no one to hold them back.

That was a lot to take in than Jaina initially thought it would go. "I think I learned well enough, Arthas.", she told him before he could say even more with a smile; she decided to pursue that matter the other day. He nodded in reply, though he notes he hasn't told her of the unfortunate fate of Prince Kael joining Illidan in destroying the Frozen Throne, and his eventual role in betraying Quel'thalas to bring Kil'Jaeden into Azeroth. "If we're going to make sure they never come, what should we do first?"

Arthas cupped his chin for a moment. "First and foremost. Lordaeron remains stable, mostly." he continued. "Since I didn't come back to murder father and destroy it from the inside, we can expect to defend from any upcoming attack from the Scourge. So that is secured for now."

Jaina felt a shiver of hope at his words, the horrors of the past threatening to fade beneath the promise of a better future. She could still remember the image of him murdering King Terenas in cold blood. So at least she takes consolation that it never happens here.

"Secondly, there's Kel'thuzad," Arthas went on. "His remains were used to taint the Sunwell following the invasion of Quel'thalas to revive him as an Archlich,capable of summoning Archimonde. But since the Kirin Tor held him, we need to convince Antonidas to execute him after and have his remains destroyed. And third we have to secure the Book of Medivh. It is powerful enough that allowed Kel'thuzad to summon Archimonde and brought about the destruction of Dalaran. Though it is not the strictest way for the Legion to come over."

Jaina understood what needs to be done. "I'll see if Master can be convinced to have it placed in a more secure location. Given its value to the Kirin Tor, convincing him might not be difficult."

Arthas paused, looking towards the horizon. "And if all else fails," he continued, "I will make the necessary preparations for an expedition to the west, as you did before under the Prophet's instructions."

It all sounded straightforward. But they have to consider a few things first.

Jaina nodded thoughtfully. "King Terenas will likely demand a public trial for Kel'Thuzad," she pointed out. "The Kirin Tor might be inclined to honor his wishes, given the severity of his crimes in spreading the plague onto Lordaeron as well as him being the founder of the Alliance."

Arthas sighed. "And at this point, we might as well try and deal with him quietly. We can't risk Kel'Thuzad escaping or turning the trial into a platform for his madness."

"And what of Quel'Thalas?" she then asked, vaguely remembering the screams of countless Elves in Arthas' memories. "Can we warn them? If the Scourge decides to invade..."

He sighed heavily, remembering a certain Ranger-General who vexed him before. "Sylvanas," he murmured. "Her pride and anger were what made the fall of Quel'Thalas so easy in my... previous life. I already sent a letter to Rhonin for his wife Vereesa warning the Elves about Dar'Khan Drathir, their traitorous Magister who let the Scourge in. And I hope it did reach them somehow that would convince them to act."

The sorceress pieced out a certain memory. "So, I'm guessing your 'condolence letter' to Rhonin has another agenda isn't it?", she recalled, remembering Arthas sending the letter when ther were in Andorhal, which he nodded in confirmation.

They shared a knowing glance. "Convincing her will not be easy given that I am but an outsider and shouldn't be involved with the inner workings of their Kingdom," Arthas admitted. "But I will do what I can. I'm considering leading an expeditionary force to assist the Elves if the worst should come to pass."

If preventing the repeat of Stratholme (mostly) and the incident at Northrend was overwhelming enough, how much could they handle next?

"We have to be careful," Jaina warned. "Or others will know what we're trying to do."

"I know," Arthas replied with a solemn nod. "We need all the help we can get, but without revealing too much. Can we ask your father, Lord Admiral Daelin, for assistance?"

"What do you need from him?" she asked, curious.

"If the need arises, we'll be needing his fleet to help evacuate refugees in short notice," he answered her. "Your father has always been committed to the Alliance's cause. I believe he could help us."

"I can ask him," she assured him. "But him asking questions will be the tricky part."

They sat in silence, lost in their thoughts."There's one more person we could seek help from," she suggested tentatively. "Lord Tirion Fordring."

Arthas's expression grew troubled. "I am not sure he would want to help me," he said, recalling the bitter memories of his trial and exile. "Given I was one of the judges that exiled him for that incident with the Orc Eitrigg. Not to mention where he could be since he's living like a nomad nowadays."

"Stormwind?"

"Still recovering, but resillient. And as for Varian, I know he's going through a tumultuous time with his wife's passing and the political unrest. But with the House of Nobles controlling the government, it's difficult to say what capacity Stormwind is truly in to offer aid."

"Stromgarde?"

"Unless we could warn King Thoras of his light-forsaken manchild that he called his Crown Prince who murdered him for the throne, there's no telling. And we have to remember that father and King Thoras had an earlier disagreement that resulted in Stromgarde seceding from the Alliance."

"Gilneas?"

"Trying to talk to King Greymane is the equivalent of talking to a brick wall. Literally."

"Ironforge and the Gnomeregan?"

"Preoccupied with the Troggs coming out and genocidal maniacs using weapons of mass destruction"

The two of them looked at each other, now feeling a bit stuck. But then, as if to lighten the mood, Arthas cracked a nervous chuckle. "So, Jaina, care to guess what we've signed up for?"

The sorceress couldn't help but smile at his attempt to light up the mood. "I'd say we're in for a rough time," she replied with a wry smile, but she was equally determined as him.

"Understatement of the century," Arthas quipped, his own smile a bit more genuine.

The next day, Arthas stood before the Silver Hand training grounds, finding Uther in a moment of discussion with Saidan Dathrohan and Alexandros Morgraine. As he watched his mentor, Arthas still felt the guilt within him after reliving the memory of personally slaying Uther to take his father's urn. But given that he also made Uther to help him slaughter infected citizens at Stratholme with Jaina, Arthas felt it was eating him from the inside of his decision to convince his mentor into slaughtering civilians against his better conscience, infected or not.

Given that or forcing Uther to purge an entire city, Arthas could say the alternative was a safer. And less bloody course. And he did not have the time to speak with Uther when they left for Northrend. But somehow, Arthas knew that Uther had been suspecting him of his behaviour, but he still tried what he could to help him, while not telling him of his previous life. And even sending Jaina to come with him at Northrend to make sure he was okay.

As the two Paladins took their leave, Arthas approached Uther, who saw him approach and couldn't help but be relieved to see him well. "Arthas, I've heard that your mission to rescue Muradin has beeen quite a successs", the veteran Paladin spoke with admiration, but also with a hint of caution. "I suppose congratulations are in order?"

Arthas waved his left hand onto him. "Can it for the moment, Uther. Mal'Ganis and the Scourge are still out there.", he told him in a jovial tone to mask his uncertainties. "But still...it's good to see you here back home."

Uther looked at hir right arm, which remained concealed under the Prince's right shoulder cape. "Your arm, Arthas," he said, concern etched on his face. "Is there something wrong?"

Arthas quickly covered his discomfort with a reassuring smile. "It's nothing, Uther," he lied. "Just a small wound from the fight against Mal'Ganis. It will heal with time." He didn't dare reveal the true nature of his affliction, not yet. "Tell me," he began, "What of the Cult of the Damned? Have they been fully dealt with since Kel'Thuzad's capture?"

Uther took a moment to ponder. "No, not entirely," he admitted. "Since his apprehension and detainment under the Kirin Tor, they have gone into hiding. But with Rivendare and Lord Barov under our custody, we might be able to make them talk in no time. We are preparing to pursue them as soon as we could, and reports say they've taken in refuge at Strahnbrand. But we have to verify its authenticity."

It was good news. For now at least. "You're going to need me for the interrogation, Uther.", Arthas stated as he and Uther walked along the Silver Hand's training grounds.

"I agree, but you have already seen enough action in a long while, lad.", Uther replied in concern, thinking that the mission at Northrend had taken a toll on the Prince already. "I think it is only fitting that you rest while we go and ensure those cultists will stand before the people of Lordaeron and do what needs to be done."

The elder Paladin turns to leave, but Arthas called out for him. "Uther!", he stopped to look at him.

There was one thing that he needed to be straight with Uther. Perhaps not right now, but he really wished to say it to him should something happen that would render any further possibilities to be destroyed.

I dearly hope there is a special place in hell waiting for you, Arthas.

We may never know, Uther. I intend to live forever.

Arthas took a deep breath, it was already weighing into his heart because on how wrong he was to him, and he wanted to at least mend the bond between them even if he hasn't known the truth yet, as he had told Jaina. "Uther, I've disappointed you. I have not been very appreciative of your training. . . I have been arrogant, selfish and prideful. I apologize . . . I've just been so ...pressured of all that has happened, that I fear that I could not hope to be the Paladin you've trained me to be."

Uther's eyes softened as he took in Arthas's earnest apology, this was a new look as Arthas hadn't been the one to own up to his mistakes. He paused for a moment before turning to face the prince fully, his hand coming to rest on the young man's shoulder. "Arthas, you have went through trials that would have broke anyone else and came out victorious. You've done everything you could under your power to do what is right. For all the temptations and the frustrations you have went through, you have emerged a different person than the one I have trained for all these years." He looked at Arthas, where he saw the Prince's self doubts and genuine reflection. "You have grown stronger and wiser. And I could only tell how much you have made me proud."

Arthas swallowed hard, he did not expect this conversation from the man he gleefully slain. "But what of my...mistakes?" he asked. "What of the time I...I failed you?"

He simply wasn't referring to his shortcomings as a Paladin, but of his own decisions as a Death Knight.

Uther's gaze never wavered. "We all make mistakes, Arthas," he professed. "What defines us is not our past, but what we choose to do with it. You have faced your fears and your demons, and come out the other side. You have the makings of a great king."

The prince looked up at Uther. "Do you truly believe that, Uther?"

"With every fiber of my being," Uther assured him. "You have proven your worth not just as a Paladin, but as a leader and a protector of this realm. Your father would be proud of the man you've become."

Just hearing those words made his heart constrict. Forcefully, Arthas nodded, trying his best to keep a normal expression to him. "Thank you, Uther," he managed to say, but he felt the words to be inadequate.

The paladin offered him a warm smile. "You are welcome, Arthas. Now," he said, his tone shifting to one of gentle reprimand. "We have much work to do. But I say as your superior, that you need to rest, lad."

"You're right," Arthas replied, his voice stronger now. "I won't let my past define me. I will be the king that Lordaeron needs, in the best of my abilities."

Uther's smile grew. "That is the Arthas I know," he said, his voice filled with pride. "Now, come. Perhaps you could tell me what had happened back at Northrend."

Meanwhile in the snowy mountains of Alterac, the Blackrock Clan's outposts stand on guard of the Demon Gate that they used to communicate with their masters beyond. Red Dragons flew above them as Fel energy had corrupted these creatures into serving them. Meanwhile, Blackrock Warchief Jubei'thos, his unmistakable red skin being the result of being infused with Fel energy and otherwise known as Wrathjaw, is in a middle of a discussion with his subordinates, the Warlocks Mazrigos and Throk'Feroth, all three speaking for the 'impure' traitors of a 'new' Horde led by the Son of Durotan.

Wrathjaw's eyes burned with a fiery hatred that matched the very essence of the corrupted dragons that patrolled the skies above. "That Frostwolf upstart, Thrall," he spat out the name like a curse, "dares to claim the title of Warchief, one that has not been used since the days of Blackhand and Doomhammer." His fists clenched tightly around the handle of his broadblade, as if he was ready to strike down anyone near him in his anger.

Mazrigos, who looked at the new Horde with contempt, nodded in agreement. "He leads the Horde astray," he professed to his comrades. "Following a so-called Oracle, seeking a path westward that leads only to ruin and despair."

Throk'Feroth spoke up next. "But not all clans have been so foolish," he said. "They are yet to see the mettle of their new Warchief. And should he fail, overtaking him would not be a problem."

Wrathjaw grunted his approval. "Indeed. While they chase shadows and false promises, we will prepare to strike at the very heart of their new world. The true Horde will rise again, and it will serve the Burning Legion without question."

Even in spite of their failure during the last war, the Blackrock Clan remained resolute in their mission in bringing the Legion to Azeroth. Despite many saying that the Legion lost their favor to them, Wrathjaw was determined to serve his masters unquestioningly. But without Gul'dan to properly communicate with them, they cannot say for sure.

All of a sudden, a pair of swirling shadows materialized before the three Orcs, with Wrathjaw drawing his broadblade while Throk'Feroth and Mazrigos channeled Fel energy into their hands. One of them was Tichondrius, looking regal as he is menacing. While the other was more obese and had smaller eyes, almost as if he was meant to be mocked, though his power was quite notable for the Warlocks as to tread lightly with him.

"At ease, Warchief.", Tichondrius spoke didplomatically. "We have come to seek an audience with you."

Wrathjaw's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the sudden intrusion of Tichondrius. "What is the meaning of this?" he bellowed, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon. "Speak your piece or I will cut off your tongue!"

The Dreadlord remained unfazed by the orc's hostility. "We come as an envoy of the Burning Legion," his hand gesturing to himself and to Detheroc. "Our masters require the service of the Blackrock Clan once more."

Mazrigos and Throk'Feroth exchangedglances, while Wrathjaw looked interested. "And why should we believe you?" he demanded, pointing his blade at the two.

Tichondrius' smiled. "The Legion has not forgotten your expertise in the last war," he said with honeyed deceit. "Your loyalty, though tested, is not forgotten. An now we stand on the precipice of victory. But we need your strength, and your skill, to ensure that the path to Azeroth remains open for our invasion."

Wrathjaw's chest swelled with pride at the mention of the Legion's favor. "What is it you would have us do?" he asked, his anger momentarily forgotten.

Detheroc leaned in, his eyes burning into Wrathjaw's soul. "We require the Blackrock Clan to bolster our forces," he explained. "And should it lead to success, the Legion will forgive your failures from years before."

The orc warlocks exchanged glances, both of hope and doubt. "What guarantees do we have that you speak the truth?" Mazrigos ventured.

"Kel'Thuzad," Tichondrius spoke the name with a hint of reverence, "is the key to summoning our Legion into Azeroth. If he is freed from the Alliance's clutches, he can serve as our conduit. And in return for your loyalty," he paused, his eyes gleaming with dark promises, "the Burning Legion shall grant you vengeance upon those who led you to the internment camps. The humans who dared to crush you in the Second War."

Wrathjaw's eyes lit up with a fiery passion at the mention of his clan's long-standing enemies. "You promise us revenge?" he growled, though he sounded eager.

"More than that," Tichondrius assured him, his smile widening. "The power to destroy them all, and to claim a place of honor in the new order that will rise from the ashes of their world. As well as the heads of those who turned away from the creed you believe in."

The two Warlocks exchanged eager looks, this seemed to good. But they could feel the amount of Fel energy that the two had with them, and it is to no doubt that these were demons who had served the Legion. "What do you think, Warchief?", Mazrigos queried to his leader.

Wrathjaw took a moment to think. "If what you say is true, then as the true servants of the Legion, it shall have our blade once more.", he declared. "We have waited long enough, and our Warlocks had predicted that their return is inevitable." 

Throk'Feroth nodded his agreement. "Then we shall stand with you, Dreadlord," he said, bowing his head in a show of respect. 

Tichondrius's gaze fell upon Wrathjaw, finding the conversation to be convenient while Detheroc looked skeptical as to how easy Tichondrius managed to win them over; he had planned on taking their minds as their own as a backup plan. But then again, these are the same witless Orcs who failed them before. "Good," The Dreadlord bellowed. "Then let us begin."

The three orcs nodded in unison and moved to inform the rest of their comrades. As they turned to leave, Tichondrius could not help but muse to himself. "How easily the weak cling to the promise of power," he thought. They are capable pawns to be disposed off later, but they still have their uses nonetheless. And they would be instrumental of their next plan.

The Prince was no longer the focus of their grand design; after all, a pawn can always be exchanged to another. And there are plenty of pawns that could be used to further the Legion's return.

Chapter Text

The following day, Jaina had made her preparations to depart as she and Arthas walked side by side near the gardens.

Jaina looked up at Arthas, looking hopeful and trepidated. "I'll be heading to Dalaran now, to speak with Antonidas about Kel'Thuzad and the Book," she said in a steady tone but eyes also showed her fear. "I'll do my best to convince him of what we're going up against, but also to make sure not to reveal too much."

Arthas tenderly looked at her. "We'll need whatever help we can get," he said with a gentle smile. "I...I honestly don't know what to do without you, Jaina."

The mage reached up and placed her hand on his cheek. "Promise me, Arthas," she whispered, "that you'll be careful. That you won't push yourself too far."

He felt the warmth of her touch and the sincerity of her words. "I promise," he murmured, leaning into her hand. "I will. And I'll find you if I need help, I swear it."

For a brief moment, they stood like that, their foreheads pressed together, almost not wanting to separate one another. But Jaina knew they had to, if they wish to avert what she had seen in his darkest memories.

With a final nod, she stepped back and took Arthas' hand. "I'll see you again, Arthas." she promised with tenderness she had not felt in a long time.

He squeezed her hand before releasing it. "I'll see you again too, Jaina." Arthas responded with the same smile.

And with that, Jaina teleported to Violet Citadel, leaving Arthas behind with a lingering smile. I really hope that we could Jaina..., he thought to himself. The last time he really did saw her in his previous life was before he went to Northrend to hunt Mal'Ganis, and that was when he was lost completely.

His thoughts were focused on their task ahrsd. Kel'thuzad and the Book of Medivh are two parts of the puzzle, but also making sure the Sunwell is intact. Trying to convince Quel'thalas on what is happening is something that he had to think thoroughly. Ever since the death of Sir Anduin Lothar, the Elves no longer felt the need for the Alliance nor they feel obligated to help them. As harsh as it may seem, King Anasterian was a fool in doing so in spite of countless humans giving up their lives to help Quel'thalas when Lordaeron was besieged too.

Not just that, but him withdrawing from the Alliance was a precedent that was later followed by King Greymane of Gilneas and King Thoras of Stromgarde. And look how that ended for them in the Third War.

Arthas decided to relax for a moment and clear his head by striding through the archway and into the open space of the courtyard. There, he looked to find his older sister, Calia, who looked up from her book, her eyes lighting up as she spotted him. "Arthas!" she called out, setting aside her reading material and rushing to meet him.

"Callie!" he exclaimed with a grin, catching her in a warm embrace. Even in spite of the contrast of their upbringings, the bond between them remained unshaken. "It's good to see you," he whispered, holding her tight for a brief moment.

Calia pulled back to look at him directly. "Father's been so worried," she scolded him lightly. "What happened in Northrend?"

Arthas chuckled, ruffling her hair gently. "Let's just say I had to make some... difficult decisions," he replied, his own smile not quite reaching his eyes. "But I am here, and everything's okay."

Calia's gaze softened. "You always say that," she said with a knowing smile. "But somehow, you make it true."

The two of them stood there for a while, their reunion making them forget of the troubles of the kingdom. It brought joy to Arthas at seeing her again after assuming that she had died, even though he never really realized she was still alive at that point.

Calia stepped back to look at Arthas more closely, looking on his right arm, which was hidden beneath layers of cloth. "What happened to your arm?" she asked in concern.

Arthas' smile didn't falter as he replied, "It's just a wound from fighting the undead in Northrend," he said, patting the covered limb lightly. "It's nothing to worry about, really. The healers have seen worse."

There's no way he's going to tell her how his arm ended up being cursed by a runeblade that took his soul in the previous life.

Calia knew that her brother had a habit of downplaying his injuries. "It doesn't look like it's healing well," she said, reaching out to touch the bandages gently.

"It's fine," he assured. "It's just taking some time, that's all. Now, tell me, what's been happening here while I was away?"

Her expression turned wistful as they continued walking. "Father's been pushing me to consider marriage again," she sadly stated. "But...it didn't sit right with me."

"I remember...", Arthas said as he looked absentmindedly at the sky. "You were supposed to be engaged to Lord Prestor of Alterac before he just vanished. You hardly even know him when you two were engaged back then."

"Oh, Arthas," Calia sighed, "I know he just wants to secure alliances and strengthen our kingdom, but I can't help but feel like he's trying to dictate my happiness."

Arthas chuckled and placed his good arm around her shoulders. "When I become King, I'll make sure Father understands that love is not something to be bartered," he said with a warm smile. "You'll marry for your heart, not for political gain. I'll not have it any other way."

"But what if you don't become King?" Calia asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Callie," Arthas said, feigning a look of mock offense, "have you so little faith in your brother's destiny?"

They both laughed, the sound echoing through the courtyard. But there is something that he wanted to be clear to her. "And Callie...I know of your little secret...", he whispered to her.

Arthas had known that Calia had secretly married behind their father's back to a footman belonging in the army, something that Terenas would never approve, but their mother approved of it after initial resistance after seeing how true their relationship was. She secretly gave birth to a daughter. A few weeks after giving birth, it was decided the father would raise their daughter away from Lordaeron, ignorant of her birthright. Their mother Lianne promised that once Arthas was properly wed and produced an heir, they would acknowledge Calia's daughter and possibly elevate her husband to a nobleman's status.

The only reason why he knew this, was because the Priestess who married them, was among those who serve the Scourge when he was the Lich King in his previous life.

Calia's laughter died in her throat, replaced by a look of shock and fear that Arthas had never seen before. "What do you know?" she whispered in dread.

Arthas took her by the hand, looking serious. "Your secret," he said, his voice low and gentle. "The one you've kept hidden from Father."

Her heartbeat spiked, as only their mother knew of it until now. "How... how did you find out?" she stuttered.

"It doesn't matter," Arthas assured her. "What matters is that I will not betray your trust, Callie. I know about your love, your marriage, and your daughter."

Calia felt as though the ground had dropped out from beneath her. She had hoped that her secret would remain buried, a source of happiness that no one could take away. "You... you can't tell Father," she begged, her voice trembling. "He'd never understand."

"I promise you," Arthas told her with finality. "What kind of brother would I be if I took away the one thing that truly brings you joy? Your happiness is important to me."

She looked at him to find any indication that he was lying, but found none. "And... and our daughter?" she lowly asked. "Will you protect her too?"

"With my life," Arthas swore. "And if you ever need me, if you ever want me to help you, just ask."

A tear rolled down Calia's cheek as she threw her arms around her brother, hugging him tightly. "Thank you," she murmured into his shoulder, her fear momentarily forgotten in the warmth of his embrace. "Thank you for understanding."

"Always, Callie," Arthas lovingly said to her. "Always."

Jaina's eyes widened in shock as she stepped into the chambers of Violet Citadel. Antonidas looked like he had aged significantly, slumped into his chair as his eyes looked exhausted and weary from whatever incantation he had been doing and is in due for rest himself. "Master," she gasped, rushing to his side.

Antonidas looked up at her despite his condition. "Jaina," he greeted, his voice strained. "Your timing is impeccable, but your news... I fear it has come too late."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her heart racing with concern.

The Grand Magus sighed heavily. "I managed to interrogate Kel'Thuzad," he explained, his voice cracking with the effort of speaking. "I delved into his mind, seeking to understand the greater scope of the cause his serves. But the spirit he serves... it is ancient and powerful, a force beyond our understanding."

Jaina's hand trembled as she reached out to him. "What did you see?"

He took a deep, painful breath. "The depth of Kel'Thuzad's memories... the plague he brought upon our Lordaeron... it is as if I have gazed into the very heart of the void," he said, his eyes haunted.

"Ner'zhul...", Jaina muttered in contempt, knowing that this was the same being who corrupted Arthas in his previous life.

The Grand Magus nodded gravely. "Moving memory to memory where I am not in the vicinity of his presence was taxing. And Ner'zhul himself had seen through me, and almost felt being torn from the plane of existence when I saw him.", he explained in a weary tone.

Antonidas continued. "From what I've seen, I fear for your friend, Prince Arthas of Lordaeron.", he called out his name wearily. "Kel'thuzad had been working with the Dreadlord called Mal'Ganis to target him specifically, and to use his own failures and the harm they brought to his people to lure him to Northrend for a purpose that I cannot discern, where I believe Ner'zhul himself resides."

"Master," Jaina anxiously began , "Arthas and I had went to Northrend. We went there to rescue Muradin Bronzebeard...all the while investigating what his beneath those piles of snow." She paused, gauging the archmage's reaction before continuing. "We encountered Mal'Ganis there, but we managed to escape with Muradin."

She wasn't going to tell him how she nearly had her soul stolen by the cursed runeblade when Arthas adamantly refused to take the blade as he did before.

Antonidas leaned forward at the mention of the Prince. "And Arthas?" he asked apprehensively. "What happened to him?"

Jaina took a deep breath, steadying herself before responding. "He faced the Dreadlord," she admitted, averting his gaze. "When we faced Mal'Ganis, he was injured. But he is well now, resting and regaining his strength."

Antonidas expression was a tumult of relief and dread. "If so, then we are fortunate. Apparently, the Dreadlord Mal'Ganis is part of the Burning Legion, and their plan is to bring them here in Azeroth. And we do not need to imagine what kind of destruction they would wreak havoc in our world if they entered again."

Jaina looked at her mentor once more, looking determined. "Master," she lowly and urgently began, "I must tell you something of vital importance. Arthas and I have... discerned Kel'Thuzad's true role in all of this. He is not just a mere pawn of the Scourge, but a player in the Burning Legion's invasion."

Antonidas was immediately curious. "What are you saying?"

"He is to be the summoner," Jaina revealed,. "The incantations within the Book of Medivh are potent enough to bring forth the demonic forces. We can't let them get their hands on it by any means necessary ."

The Grand Magus was stunned. "The Book of Medivh," he murmured, his eyes widening with horror as he thought more thoroughly. "I'll see to it that it would be stored further in the inner sanctum, in spite of what the Council may complain. If what you say is true, then perhaps we are playing under their very palms. And about time as well, as Kel'thuzad is moved to nowhere he could reach it."

His apprentice felt like her blood turned into ice upon hearing that. "Where was Kel'thuzad moved, Master?", Jaina asked in a both cold and fearful tone.

Antonidas' expression grew troubled at seeing her like this. "King Terenas has requested that he be brought before Lordaeron to stand trial," he revealed. "His Royal Highness wishes to ensure that justice is served for the crimes he has committed against the people of Lordaeron. To ensure that justice is served for the crimes he has committed against our people."

Jaina felt her heart plummet at the words. "What!?" she exclaimed. "No! He...he can't be in Lordaeron!"

Now, Antonidas was taken back. "Why?", he asked in intrigue. "What is wrong, Jaina?"

"Him being in the Capital city is one thing, Master.", Jaina urgently explained to him. "He is more secure in the hands of the Kirin Tor than he is now. You saw it himself, he had more resources than we give him credit for. Especially since the Cult of the Damned is within his reach!"

He looked at her inquisitively. "But the Cult is largely undermined since Lord Barov and Baron Rivendare are in custody. And now, Kel'thuzad himself", Antonidas pointed out. "What makes you think they are still active, child?"

"That's what they want us to think!", Jaina exclaimed. "They're waiting for an opportunity. And if Kel'thuzad has arrived there, then who knows what they'll do."

"Take a moment to calm yourself, Jaina.", Antonidas advised her, looking confused and concerned for her. "Jaina, what do you know that we do not?"

Jaina looked at him straight to the eyes as if to tell him he made a terrible mistake. "I know well enough on what is he capable off and how he would use every disadvantage to exploit it ruthlessly."

He appeared to be convinced. "We wil remain on guard," he assured her. "The Council of Six will stand guard, and we will make sure he is properly dealt with. But for now, we must act within the bounds of our laws."

Jaina took a deep breath. "I trust your judgment, Master," she said at last, though it was forced after realizing that Kel'thuzad is very likely at the heartland of Lordaeron. "But I can't leave it to chance..."

To Antonidas' surprise and confusion, Jaina began to cast a teleportation spell back to Lordaeron. "I have to warn him...", he murmured before she disappeared.

A few days earlier...

Outside Dalaran, a contingent of Kirin Tor Archmages and Lordaeron Knights stood on guard as Kel'thuzad, in chains and his magic suppressed, is being escorted to the city gates. After receiving King Terenas' request to bring him over to Lordaeron, and Antonidas appearing to be finished with him, they complied with the King's request.

"Eeugh, I can't believe the very bringer of the plague is this old man.", a footman complained, shoving Kel'thuzad into the carriage en route to Lordaeron's capital city. "I wonder why the Prince and the Kirin Tor bothered with him."

The necromancer sneered at the soldier. "Do not be so confident, young one.", Kel'thuzad mockingly cautioned. "Your arrogance would be the death of you."

Another guard scoffed. "Keep talking, ya decaying relic.", he mocked. "Once the King's got you in good hands, you won't have to worry about opening that mouth of yours."

Kel'thuzad remained silent, watching as the guards make the last adjustments to his chains. But as they left Dalaran, he gazed upon one particular guard who remained stonefaced throughout the whole thing. And he smirked at the guard. "You know where to find me now...I will be waiting patiently.", he mentally transmitted to the mind controlled pawn of the before the carriage began to move.

From the mountain outposts at Alterac, Detheroc's eyes gleamed with anticipation as he turned to Tichondrius and Mal'Ganis. "He's being moved to Lordaeron as we speak.", he reported to his fellow Dreadlords.

Mal'Ganis assessed the situation. "Which would mean whatever defenses that surrounded Kel'thuzad would be more vulnerable without the Kirin Tor detaining him."

"Which would make all things much easier from here...", Tichondrius was pleased when he said those words, turning to Wrathjaw. "Gather your warriors, Warchief.", the Dreadlord ordered the Orc, needing them for what is to come along with the Scourge that they still command. "The first step towards our Master's return is at an hand."

The Fel Orc grunted with determination. "Consider it done, Dreadlord.", Wrathjaw said before he began barking orders to his men to move and ready themselves as to what is to come.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Tribulations.

In a massive orc internment camp near the ruins of Durnholde Keep called Stonewall Citadel, it was day to day typical activities as Alliance soldiers stood guard on the massive numbers of Orcs that remained in their cells and cages alike with the aid of a few magi of the Kirin Tor. Even after the breakouts made by the late Aedelas Blackmoore's former Gladiator-turned Warchief Thrall and the late Orgrim Doomhammer, there are a few internment camps that remained that were kept under strict secrecy as its prisoners live in isolation and not being able to see the light of day.

"Look at them," one of the human guards sneered, spitting onto the ground as he gestured to the imprisoned Orcs. "Greenskins, all of 'em. A bit sad that their new Warchief must've missed them because they're here. Because after that stunt of his along with his boss who lost, the King should've slotted the lot of you long ago." His comrades only laughed in disdain at the imprisoned Orcs.

"Hush, you fool," another guard warned. "You know the King's orders. Let the mages handle the demon-loving scum. Word is, their new Warchief had wiped out a Kul'tiran detachment at Darkspear Islands."

The first guard only scoffed. "Aye, I heard about that Thrall," he skeptically confirmed. "Some say he's got a new Horde forming, trying to be all noble and declared they changed. But given how they rampaged all throughout Lordaeron and those elf lands, I wouldn't hold my breath of them keeping their word."

His colleague crossed his arms. "If they come knocking at our doors, we'll show 'em why we won the last war. They'll die trying to break out these beasts."

Meanwhile, the Orcs within the cells remained stoic with quiet resentment. When they first heard of Doomhammer and his protegé's escape, they held out hope that they would be able to finally escape. But after they heard of their Warchief's death and his successor escaping the Eastern Kingdoms to lands unknown, they felt abandoned as no rescue was ever made, not knowing that their presence was kept under secrecy. And all they could now, is wait.

Suddenly, they were interrupted by a low rumble that shook their surroundings and they immediately saw that something was terribly wrong.

They quickly went outside the corridor where projectiles fired by Meat Wagons went to the courtyards, spawning skeletal warriors and abominations alike when they spilled over the battlements. At the center, the ground erupted as Ghouls and Abominations guided by necromancers, attacked the soldiers who were training . The human guards quickly went for their weapons in the face of the relentless Scourge invasion.

"Sound the alarm!" one of the magi shouted, firing a fireball at a nearby Ghoul that was incinerated, before a chained hook pierced through his chest by an Abomination before he was pulled by the sheer force in terror. "Get over here!", the creature bellowed.

As this was already happening, the gates of the citadel were breached by an overwhelming force of Blackrock Orcs, led by their Warchief as he called out to his brethren.

"Brothers of the Blackrock!" he bellowed with his voice being heard throughout the camp. "The time for vengeance is upon us! Let no human survive for what they have done to our people!"

The guards desperately fought back as they tried to hold off the onslaught. But the camp of the living was swiftly being overrun by the the combined force of Orcs and of the Scourge. Quickly, the Blackrock Orcs found their imprisoned brethren and broke the chains of their cages as well as the bindings that kept them immobile. Fueled by resentment and rage that had built up, they promptly picked up whatever weapons they could get and systematically slaughtered the remaining guards, even some using their bare hands to rip off the limbs of a few unfortunate guards that were still alive.

In the midst of the carnage, Wrathjaw looked over the chaotic scene before him with satisfaction. His hatred for the humans burned hotter than the fires of his demonic masters that had been present ever since their defeat from the previous war all those years ago

Amidst the chaos, a terrified horseman began to ride to the nearest friendly outpost to try and warn them what was happening. However, three wolf-riding Orc Raider swiftly intercepted him, their snarling beasts sinking teeth into the steed's flank. The horse collapsed, sending the rider sprawling into the mud. The raiders, dismounted and dragged the trembling messenger before their leader.

"Warchief," one of them grunted, dropping the human at his leader's feet. "We found this one trying to flee."

Wrathjaw's looked upon the cowering figure. "What do you intend to do, human scum?" he demanded, raising his broadblade.

The messenger's was clearly terrified. "I...the internment camps...under attack...King Terenas must be warned..."

With a snarl, Wrathjaw swung his blade, ending the man's life with a spray of blood. "Fools," he hatefully spat. "They think to cage us, to break our spirits? They will know the price of their arrogance!"

The Fel Orc Warchief's stood before the Orcs before him that included those who were freed. "Brothers!" he roared. "Today, we stand not as prisoners, but as warriors! The humans who dared to cage us shall feel the size of our resolve! Remember the cruelties they've visited upon our kin, the dishonor they've brought to our names! Our time for vengeance has come, and our salvation lies in their ruin!"

The captive orcs with their spirits ignited, roared in approval as they smashed their way free of their prisons to which they had been brought by their human captors.

With a final, thunderous cry, Wrathjaw called out to his people, "Rise, my brothers! The age of human arrogance has ended! No more weak human Kings to define our destinies! Follow me, and you will never be again be in chains! RISE UP! FOR THE TRUE HORDE!"

His brethren raised their fists and weapons while their undead comrades gathered the slain bodies of their human captors. "BURN IT ALL DOWN! ALL OF THEM!"

Behind the Warchief, he heard a slow clapping of applause as he turned to find Tichondrius where he took in the destruction wrought by the Blackrock Orcs. "I am impressed, Warchief.", he stated. "The Legion will be most pleased with what you have achieved here."

Wrathjaw grunted in acknowledgment. "We fight for our kin," he rumbled. "For our freedom and our vengeance. As the will of our masters of the Legion!"

The Dreadlord nodded in approval. "Indeed," he said, his hand raising to gesture at the countless human bodies littering the ground. "But do not let your newfound power cloud your judgment. These humans have served their purpose, and now they shall serve us in another way."

With a flick of his wrist, a dark, malevolent energy emanated from the Dreadlord, and the lifeless forms of the slain Alliance soldiers began to stir. The dead rose as mindless undead, their eyes now vacant and cold as they now serve a new master.

"With these new...soldiers," he gestured to the freshly risen undead, "Overtaking the rest of the remaining camps will not be a predicament then we set our sights on the capital."

The Blackrock Warchief was intrigued of the possibility of plunging his blade to the human King who formed the Alliance. "My blade thirsts for the blood of those who wronged us," he growled.

"It shall be quenched, Warchief," Tichondrius assured him. "But first, we must ensure Kel'Thuzad's release. Once he is returned to our grasp, then we are sure to move in the next phase of our plan to bring the Legion into this world."

Wrathjaw nodded, watching as his men tore down Stonewall Citadel of everything of value. Everything is going as planned..., Tichondrius thought as he watched.

Back in Lordaeron Palace...

"Father, I understand the importance of continuing our line," Arthas stated to his father as they walked along the palace's hallways when Terenas brought up the idea of him taking a bride. "but I cannot in good conscience bring a wife into this world until we are sure that the threat of the undead and the plague is resolved in earnest."

Terenas looked at him in pride when he saw his son's maturity was clear. "Duty always comes first, my son. And you have been very focused and more considerate in the more delicate affairs in our Kingdom."

"I know," Arthas replied with a sigh, hiding the fact that there is still much more to do after the entire ordeal at Northrend. "But considering the choices I may soon make... I have to be more careful while being firm in the direction that I'm trying to follow."

The King looked over him closely. "Tell me, Arthas...", he began in curiosity "What have you learned yourself? What lessons have you picked up that you may use when the time comes?"

Arthas looked over his side for a moment. "When it came to making the hardest choices, it's hard to say. Do you take the least difficult but more dangerous method in doing what needs to be right not knowing its immediate consequences? Or would you the opposite, being longer but safer in the long run where you could realize the consequences of what might happen?"

"And what do you choose, Arthas?", Terenas asked him.

The Prince took his time to think. "It might be that this idea pertains to how we should think before we act accordingly. To be patient and to think wether or not it would've been good for the people you lead in due time or not."

Terenas studied his son, who had been more or less a different person than the one he knew and raised all those years. "Arthas," he said thoughtfully, "I have watched you grow from a boy to a man in so short a time, it fills me with as much sadness as pride. You fit your father's crown as if it had been forged for you at the very beginning , knowing that you have been responsible as you have been pragmatic of each order you make for our people."

Arthas looked downcast. "If I have, Father," he responded, "it is because I have seen the outcome of such decisions made by fear and anger myself, and how much I try to stray away in doing so."

The King leaned in forward to listen what his heir has to say. "For months, I've grappled with the fear of what could be and the anger for what has been done to us amidst the tribulations we are also facing. I have come to understand that doing so can only bring harm to my friends as I did to my enemies. When I first learned that lesson after feeling none the wiser, I turned back to find that there is no one that I still care for left standing beside me."

For a moment the Prince did not realize the words he had sprouted and how much he had gone off topic. He had unintentionally reflected his own thoughts of his previous life, the decisions he had made before he first made that journey and he expected his father to look puzzled with confusion of his words.

Instead, he only saw the proud smile Terenas had for him. "My son, you are already showing the makings of a great king," he remarked to hin. "To recognize your errors and to learn from the lessons from before is a sign of true maturity."

The prince nodded, casting aside his earlier worries. "But I am not there yet, Father," he admitted candidly. "There is so much I still need to learn, so much I need to understand. And I have to learn to confront such fears more thoroughly if I ever intend to become a leader for our people"

The king's gaze softened. "We all have our fears, my son," he assured him. "But it is our ability to face them, to learn and grow, that defines us. In your case, your journey has only just begun, and I can say in full confidence that you are heading to the right direction."

Arthas looked up at Terenas, feeling the very image of him being stabbed by Frostmourne by his very hands slowly fading away and replaced by the proud visage of Terenas regarding him highly. "I will do my best, Father,"

"Being a leader is not one of solitude," Terenas advised. "To have trust in others, is to share the burden as well as the victories that sprouted from them. That is how a kingdom truly flourishes."

The doors of the palace swung open to reveal Alexandros Morgraine, approached Terenas and Arthas with urgent steps that stopped the two at their tracks, looking at t

"Your Highness," Morgraine announced, bowing before the two, "The necromancer Kel'thuzad has arrived. He is secured within the dungeons, awaiting your judgment."

The Prince felt his blood freeze at what he just heard. "...what?", he uttered dangerously, as if asking Morgraine to repeat what he had said.

This went unheard as Terenas nodded in relief and determination. "Good," he firmly said. "See that he is well-guarded so that he may be brought to justice. A warning to any who dare follow in his treacherous footsteps."

By the Light, what have you done father?, Arthas felt constricted as he heard what Jaina had feared. The necromancer being in the capital was the last thing they needed, where the future ArchLich would be more susceptible in being rescued, which is why he wanted him to remain in the custody of the Kirin Tor, where he might be more secure. But here he was, in the very heart of Lordaeron, where things would go from bad to worse in a flick of a wrist

"Father," Arthas began tensely, "I...I don't think he should be here in the capital. The Kirin Tor are better equipped to handle his kind."

Terenas turned to his son, showing that nothing would change his kind. "This is not about the safety of Dalaran, Arthas," he pointed out. "It's about the safety of our people. By bringing him here, we show our resolve and our morale remain unshaken in the plight that was brought upon. And to bring him here, alive and unable to do anything, would persuade his followers in the Cult to scatter."

Arthas felt like he wanted to grab his father's collar and yell at him, even though he knew Terenas hasn't known the full scope of the necromancer's abilities. Kel'thuzad's capture was not just a victory for Lordaeron; it was also to crush the morale of the Cult of the Damned.

But then this is also the same man who spread the Plague that ravaged throughout Lordaeron like it was the easiest task he could've asked for.

Arthas knew his hands are tied at this moment and he knew better than to argue with his father once Terenas made up his mind. He would have to find another way to make sure Kel'thuzad didn't have to do anything that would jeopardize everything.

"Father," Arthas spoke out in a calming manner despite his inner thoughts saying otherwise. "May I be of any assistance in preparing for the trial?"

Terenas nodded. "Very well, Arthas," he said. "But for now, I wish for you to rest and recover from your ordeal. Given that you have served as a jury for Lord Fordring's trial and the one who apprehended this monster, I will allow it."

His heir gave a curt nod in response, but resisted the urge to curse at his father for bringing Kel'thuzad here. He strode through the halls and to the terrace where he found Jaina, looking alarmed as she rushed to his side after she had teleported in the area.

"Arthas, I have to talk to you," she said in between pants as Arthas held her by her shoulders. "Master Antonidas has released Kel'thuzad into Lordaeron's custody."

Arthas felt his heart drop. He had feared as much. "I know," he replied in a strained voice while gritting his teeth in frustration. "My father ordered it. He is to stand trial here, in the capital."

Jaina's eyes grew even wider. "Here? But why?!" she exclaimed. "His followers could use this as their chance to free him or worse..."

He clenched his fists in response. "I know what he could do, Jaina. But father would not be swayed when it came to things like this," he conceded, cupping his chin in deep thought.

"What can we do?" Jaina asked in uncertainty.

Arthas sighed, clutching his forehead. "For now, what we could do is to wait because he would be closely guarded and would not be able to silence him without just cause, not yet. We'll just have to hope the proceedings would go swiftly before we could deal with him."

If only they knew what was going on inside that man's head.

A day later, Kel'thuzad stood before a group of juries, a crowd of disbelieving and angered crowd as his trial had finally commenced. He looked to find Arthas and Jaina watching him next to King Terenas and gave them a mocking, fatherly smile. Alexandros Morgraine acted as a prosecutor of his crimes, looking miffed and angered at the necromancer. Among the jury was Archbishop Alonsus Faol, Lord Othmar Garithos, Prince Arthas, and King Terenas himself.

The Prince took a moment to look at Garithos. He is still technically a General at this point, not Grand Marshal. And given his own temperament, Arthas hoped he could use it to his advantage especially if the Baron demands that the necromancer be put to death immediately.

Among those who attended are members of the Silver Hand that included Uther, Lord Tyrosus, Lord Commander Saidan Dathrohan and Alexandros' son, Darion. General Abbendis and his daughter Brigitte were also present, but it looked as if they wanted to kill the necromancer themselves but are watched by the others that they only sat back in silence.

Arthas took a moment to think he extent of Kel'thuzad's crimes including that of starting the Plague of the Undeath and causing its spread at Andorhal, infecting numerous farmlands and granaries that would prove disastrous if consumed by the common folk by Lordaeron as most did not know of it being infected. Also adding to his list of crimes is conspiring with Baron Rivendare and Lord Alexei Barov who are present to act as witnesses as well as them being convicted of their own involvement, both of whom are in league with the necromancer in transporting the grain to Stratholme that would have proved disastrous for the people had the Prince had not given orders to seize every grain cache in the city and ordered an evacuation of most of the citizens, sparing most of them from a fate worse than death. So meaning with all the evidence, a swift verdict could be reached.

It was clear that the chamber was filled tension and anger as Kel'thuzad was brought before the jury. The former Kirin Tor Archmage-turned-necromancer is bound in chains that held not only his body but his very essence. Highlord Alexandros stepped forth and recounted the heinous crimes that Kel'thuzad had committed.

"You stand accused of endangering the lives of countless souls, of defiling the very resources that sustain our kingdom, and of conspiring to commit an act of mass murder that would have surpassed any horror we have seen in this war," he declared. "You brought the plague to Andorhal, slaughtered innocents, and sought to repeat your atrocity in Stratholme. As well as personally leading the undead Scourge against the innocent souls of Lordaeron."

The crowd murmured in shock as most did not have the knowledge of what was happening around them before it morphed to anger. Kel'thuzad's smug smile only served to fuel their fury.

"What do you say to these charges, necromancer?", the King bellowed.

The necromancer lifted his chin, looking as if he was amused of his line of work. "Guilty," he spat out. "Guilty as charged, Your Grace. But my work is far from complete. Others even now carry out my will, and soon, you will see fruits of our labors."

The area ended up being a well of shock and outrage, but the defendant was unfazed. "Your kingdom is already lost," he sneered. "You are simply to blind of things that you have not understood one bit."

The jury looked over to one another. Archbishop Faol's eyes narrowed in contemplation, while Lord Garithos's face was a mask of disgust and anger. Arthas and Jaina exchanged worried glances, as if they had a feeling tha Kel'thuzad hid something that they haven't known yet.

"Who are these others you speak of?" Terenas demanded. "What further horrors do you have in store for us?"

"In due time," Kel'thuzad cackled. "In due time, the veil will be lifted. But would I ruin the surprise right now?"

"There's too many of them! We have to-gaaack!?"

"The Orcs have escaped their camps!"

"We have to warn the King! They're marching to the Capital!"

It was a chaotic sight as Lordaeron's outer sentries and scouting bases were being overrun by a combination of Blackrock and Scourge forces. One by one, they were cut down, their warning calls to the capital lost in the cries of the undead and the thunderous war drums of the Orcs growing ever close. From the front, the Blackrock Shaman Mazrigos as he sent bolts of electricity sizzling through their ranks as they tried to flee.

Wrathjaw walked through the carnage as he slaughtered his way, with each swing of his burning broadblade sent sentries flying, their armor shattering against his immense strength. Despite his size, his speed made it difficult for others to keep up with. With a grim satisfaction, he watched as his necromancers descended upon the fallen, whispering foul incantations that reanimated the lifeless into the Dreadlord's army of the damned.

The bells of the Capital City could be heard from there. And he can smell the very blood of those wretched humans from there.

Arthas was growing frustrated, and so is Jaina when it became clear that Kel'thuzad was purposefully dragging out the trial as initially intended. The necromancer kept giving cryptic questions as well as equally cryptic answers, and it seemed to frustrate the King as well enough to call necromancer's two followers of the Cult of the Damned.

Baron Rivendare and Lord Alexei Barov, once esteemed and powerful nobles of Lordaeron, were brought forth to the stand to show how the defendant's influence has run. King Terenas's face was stoic as he addressed them. "Baron Rivendare, Lord Barov, you stand as witnesses to the treachery of this man. Why, with all that you had, would you align with him to fuel his madness?"

Baron Rivendare, being a fanatic to Kel'thuzad, turned to face the king. "He has shown us power, your Highness," he steadily replied . "The kind of power that wealth and titles could never provide. He offered us a glimpse into the abyss, and we found it... liberating."

Lord Barov nodded, equally devoted as Rivendare. "We serve a greater purpose," he declared, "a new order that will cleanse this world of its weaknesses. And we will not be left behind to rot in the decay of the old ways."

The necromancer only smiled in pride. "As you can see, they understand the tides of change, my King. Soon, all will see the truth of my vision."

The court was in an uproar. Jaina and Arthas shared a look of horror as the gravity of the situation grew heavier. Falric stepped closer to Arthas. "Your Highness, shouldn't we act now?"

Arthas's jaw clenched. "Not yet, Falric," he murmured through gritted teeth. "We have to make sure to reach a verdict as soon as possible." The necromancer's words, though damning, were not enough to secure a swift condemnation.

Morgraine couldn't help but ask. "What is it that you gain from the suffering of so many others?", he asked the defendant. "What has led you to commit such deeds?"

Kel'thuzad grasped his hands. "Curiosity."

"What do you mean by that?", Morgraine pressed.

"Is it so different than your own work?", Kel'thuzad asked as if he were spreading the word of wisdom. "You take the lives of men and women, strong in the conviction that their deaths will improve the lots of those left behind. A minor evil, for a greater good? We are the same."

Arthas and Jaina looked bewildered, wondering what is he rambling about now.

However, some were growing tired of this charade. Garithos slammed his fist on the table. "I have heard enough of this madness!" he declared with hostility. "Guilty!" He spat the word like a curse. "Put him and his treacherous lapdogs to the sword!" The crowd roared their approval. Arthas, wanting to see this over with and deal with the necromancer immediately, expressed his approval.

But King Terenas raised a hand for silence. "We will not be swayed by passion," he declared. "We must hear all that he has to say. Only then can we pass a just judgment."

Kel'thuzad chuckled darkly. "Very well," he agreed. "The truth is often more terrifying than the shadows it hides within." He looked around the room, taking in the tense faces of the assembly. "I am but one piece in a much larger puzzle. Cut me out, and you may find that the picture becomes even more distorted."

Terenas leaned forward. "What purpose do you and the Scourge serve, necromancer?", he asked apprehensively.

"Your Highness," Kel'thuzad began, his voice a serpent's hiss, "the Scourge is not a mere tool, nor a beast to be tamed. It is the embodiment of the cycle of life and death." The way he spoke sounded like he was waiting for this for so long. "Like a ravenous tide, it will consume everything in its path, leaving little of the imagination. And should you dare to stand in our way," he continued, looking back to the king, "you will find that for every one of us you cut down, two more will rise to take our place."

The room grew colder, and Terenas was growing weary of him. "Your blasphemies are noted," he said, "but they do not sway our resolve. The crimes you have confessed to are unforgivable, and the fate of Lordaeron does not rest in your twisted hands."

"You speak of a fate that is already sealed," Kel'thuzad said. "Whether you submit or flee, one thing remains certain: the fates that awaited all of us are all the same."

The horizon grew closer, revealing the majestic spires of Capital City gleaming in the morning, a bastion of human arrogance that would soon know the fury of the combined might of the Blackrock Clan and the Scourge.

Tichondrius and Wrathjaw exchanged a knowing look. With a subtle gesture from the Dreadlord, the Orc Catapults and Scourge Meat Wagons at their rear lurched into action. The air was split by the whistling of boulders and the sickening thud of rotting flesh as they rained down upon the city's defenses, heralding the beginning of the siege.

The jury took a few moments to deliberate but their verdict as clear as Arthas saw it. Finally, Highlord Morgraine stood, his eyes unwavering on Kel'thuzad. "In light of your confession and the overwhelming evidence presented, the jury finds you guilty of all charges," he announced.

Baron Rivendare and Lord Barov remained stoic, but Kel'thuzad's smile grew with mali d. King Terenas spoke next with resignation. "By the power vested in me, as the ruler of Lordaeron, I hereby sentence you, Kel'thuzad, Rivendare, and Barov, to death. May your souls find peace in the afterlife, for you shall never find it in this realm."

But the necromancer seemed unfazed. "You speak of peace," he sneered. "But for us, death is but the first step towards a power that transcends your understanding."

The ground beneath their feet began to tremble, resulting in the occupants becoming on guard while the civilians inside were terrified. The doors of the grand hall burst open, and a guard stumbled in, his eyes wide with terror. "My lords," he gasped, "the city is under attack! An army of the damned, with orcs in tow, approaches the gates!"

The room erupted into chaos. Falric and the Silver Hand knights leaped to their feet, drawing their weapons and preparing to defend the city. Arthas and Jaina's gaze snapped to Kel'thuzad, realization dawning in his eyes. "You did this," he growled. "You dragged this out to buy them time to get here!"

"Oh, Arthas," Kel'Thuzad laughed. "Always so quick to assume. Perhaps your time in the Light has dulled your wits. I merely wished to see the look on your faces when the inevitable came to pass. Poor timing, I assure you."

The trembling grew more intense, the windows rattling in their frames as the earth itself seemed to shake with the approaching horror.

"Take them away," Arthas ordered, his voice firm despite the tremble in his hands. "To the dungeons, until we can deal with this menace."

The chains binding Kel'thuzad and his cohorts clanked as they were escorted from the room. As the necromancer disappeared through the doors, his final words lingered in the air like a curse. "This is but the beginning," he called out, his laughter echoing through the hall.

Lordaeron's officials gathered around the King, awaiting his orders. "We have to make sure our people are safe...", Terenas muttered in anger and frustration. "Highlord Morgraine, Archbishop Faol. See to it that our people are in the safety of the Undercity below until we can push the enemy back from the capital. Lord Goodwin and other civilian officials will assist you"

The two quickly complied, with Darion going with them as they began to get their people to safety away from the chaos outside. "I need the Silver Hand and the present elements of the army deployed at once at the front to hold them back. General Garithos, take Captain Bilric and your men with you to reinforce the front lines."

The bearded Baron agreed, brandishing his war axe. "As you command, my King.", he looked over to the guards present. "Move out!"

"The Silver Hand will reinforce the perimeter to make sure no undead passes through the gates unnoticed.", Arthas spoke up. "I'll be joining with Lord Uther to defend the front, while Lady Proudmoore will coordinate with every available mage to support us."

Terenas and Jaina agreed, and they separated. Arthas headed with the Silver Hand to meet the enemy at the gates while Terenas was escorted to safety to coordinate the civilian efforts of the battle in the palace.

It wasn't something that Arthas had foreseen. And now, it was time for him to deal with the consequences.

It was already chaotic outside, filled with screams of the dying and the rage of every combatant. The outskirts were littered by corpses of the relentless march of the Scourge and Blackrock Clan against the frenzied defense of the Alliance forces. Arthas, Uther and the Silver Hand knights charged into the fray.

"To the left, men!" Uther bellowed as a group of Abominations lumbered towards them, their slow speed making it easier for them to go around to destroy them. The knights with swords and maces swung in unison, cleaving through them handily along with the Ghouls who came with them.

Jaina, near the city gates along mages, her eyes alight with arcane power, called forth bolts of frost and fire, raining them down upon the advancing Scourge and Orc forces. Water Elementals summoned by them charged ahead against incoming Orc Warlocks and Raiders that charged against them, stopping their advance.

Falric and the other knights formed a steadfast shield wall around Arthas, their faith giving them the strength to stand firm against the relentless onslaught. "Hold the line!" Arthas roared as Light's Vengeance arcing through the air in a blur of light, smashing into the skull of a charging Orc, shattering it like glass. The creature fell, lifeless, to the ground, and the prince moved on to the next.

"Push them back men!", General Othmar Garithos charged ahead with his loyal right hand, Captain Bilric, on horseback as they cut through groups of Ghouls and Necromancers before meeting the wolf-riding Orc Raiders charging right at them. "Drive these inhuman dogs from our homeland!"

At the other side, Wrathjaw moved with a ferocity that defied his massive size. His burning broadblade spun like a tornado of fiery death, leaving a trail of dead human soldiers in his wake. Each swing of his weapon was resolute, slicing through steel and bone with ease. Lordaeron's troops were caught in a nightmare, with fear taking over them as they struggled to keep up with the Warchief's relentless onslaught.

"By the Light, what is this monster!?" one soldier exclaimed to his comrade as they stumbled back, desperately trying to dodge the whirlwind of flame and steel from the red-skinned Fel Orc.

"It's a demon!" another shouted over the din of battle.

Wrathjaw, seemingly hearing their cries, threw his head back and laughed, a sound that was more akin to the roar of a dragon than any mortal creature. The soldiers, though terrified, knew they had to stand their ground. They rallied together, their shields raised and swords pointed at the monstrous orc. "For Lordaeron!" they screamed, charging forward.

Wrathjaw met their charge with a sadistic grin, his blade carving a path of destruction through their ranks. The ground was painted with the crimson of their blood, and the air was filled with the acrid stench of their burning flesh as they fell to the Warchief's blade.

"This is glorious," Wrathjaw murmured to himself with the same madness that had once consumed his mentor, Blackhand the Destroyer. "The taste of victory is as sweet as the screams of the vanquished!"

The human soldiers redoubled their efforts, throwing themselves at the Fel Orc in a desperate bid to bring him down. But for every soldier that fell, another took their place. His advance was stopped when he used his blade to block the combined attack between Silver Hand General Abbendis, and his daughter Brigitte, looking at the Blackrock Warchief hatefully for the slaughter he had made.

"King Terenas made a mistake letting your kind live!", the elder Abbendis spat at the Orc while his daughter looked at him with disdain.

The Orc's response was a sadistic glee. "Then he will live to see the error of his judgement!"

The battle was going on smoothly as expected. Every human and orc that fell are quickly revived by Necromancers. The humans are holding their line well enough, with dwarf mortar teams raining fire on the Blackrock and Scourge artillery.

Tichondrius looked over Detheroc approaching him. "Kel'thuzad is being moved to one of their dungeons.", he informed his superior, looking over to find the Orcs fighting well than expected. "It seems the Orcs have some use after all, for now."

"Good.", Tichondrius bellow before he began to walk away from them. "I have business to take care of."

Mal'Ganis stepped forward, his curiosity piqued amidst the chaos. "Where would you go, Tichondrius?" he asked,.

Tichondrius turned to him. "I go to ensure that our pawn does not slip through our grasp," he simply replied. "He is too valuable to leave to the mercy of the Alliance. I will retrieve him personally."

Mal'Ganis' eyes narrowed. "And what of the siege?"

"Continue the assault," Tichondrius ordered, his voice cold and commanding. "Keep their attention here. Detheroc will be with you to provide... guidance. I trust you will not disappoint."

The battle raged on outside as Arthas and Uther the Lightbringer led the frontal defense. General Othmar Garithos fought with Captain Bilric at the right, while a Silver Hand vanguard along with royal troops led by Lord Commander Dathrohan and General Abbendis fought undead and orc forces alike resolutely against Wrathjaw. In spite of this, Arthas couldn't help but something is amiss and he turned to his mentor fighting beside him.

"Uther," Arthas called out to him. "I need you to ensure Kel'thuzad remains in his cell." His grip tightened around the handle of Light's Vengeance, the war hammer's head, taking down an Abomination by leaping in and destroying his head..

Uther, his own war hammer raised to parry an incoming Raider's massive blade, looked at his Prince. "He is secure, Arthas," he assured his pupil, his voice strong and steadfast. "Why so?"

"Please," Arthas urged him, cursing the fact that this had to happen when killing him was supposed to be an easy task. "If he escapes...it would have dire consequences."

The veteran paladin paused for a brief moment, looking into Arthas before he nodded solemnly. "Understood. But maintain your ground, lad! This fight isn't over yet!." With that, Uther turned and sprinted back towards the city.

"Uther!", Arthas called out, splitting a Ghoul's body with Light's Vengeance, where the elder Paladin turned to face him. "May the Light be with you."

The veteran Paladin only offered a small smile. "To you as well, lad.", he replied before he ran back.

Arthas watched his mentor go and couldn't help but feel to himself after all these hears. It was as if he knew, deep within his soul, that this might be the last time he would see Uther.

With a heavy heart, he regained focus and returned to the fray, shouting orders to his men and swinging his weapon with renewed vigor. He couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that had settled upon him, but he pushed it aside. For now that is.

Kel'thuzad was led away in chains by the Silver Hand Paladins Ballador the Bright and Sage the Truthbearer as the battle went on. The two paladins exchanged grim looks, as well as their disdain at the man who brought the plague into their lands. "I can assure you, my friends, I have no knowledge of them arrived. Poor timing, I might say.", the necromancer spoke on a sarcastic tone.

"You dare to claim innocence?" Ballador spat in disgust dripping from every syllable as he tightened his grip on the necromancer's chain. "After everything you've done to our people?"

Kel'thuzad's smug smile never wavered. "Innocence is a fleeting concept in these times, Paladin," he replied, his voice a chilling whisper. "But rest assured, the fate of your precious city is sealed."

Sage's eyes flashed with anger. "Silence your blasphemous tongue," he warned, raising his warhammer.

The necromancer chuckled darkly. "You think you can silence such fates?" He leaned in closer to the paladins, his breath hot against their faces. "You are but pawns in a game you cannot begin to comprehend."

The two paladins tightened their grips, with restrained fury. "Your arrogance will be your downfall," Ballador lowly warned.

"Or perhaps," Kel'thuzad mused, "it will be your salvation."

The two paladins hurried through the dimly lit corridors of the dungeon, the clanking of Kel'thuzad's chains echoing through the hollow halls. As they approached the cell where he was to be incarcerated, their steps faltered at the sight that awaited them. The ground was slick with the lifeblood of the slain guards and wardens, their bodies contorted in macabre displays of a slaughter. And there, standing amidst the carnage, was Tichondrius his massive wings, twin horns and hoof-like feet made him unmistakable.

"What an unexpected reunion," the Dreadlord mused. He cast a dismissive glance at the two paladins. "You have served your purpose, and now I shall take my due."

"You will not have him," Ballador declared, raising his sword and shield. Sage echoed his resolve, his warhammer held high.

Tichondrius tilted his head, considering them. "Your lives are meaningless to me," he said, his voice like a serpent's hiss. "But I will spare you, if you but hand over the necromancer."

Kel'thuzad chuckled darkly. "My apologies for the inconvenience," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Tichondrius, I had no idea you cared so much."

The Dreadlord's smile grew wider. "We still have need of your talents," he said. "You would be wise to reconsider your loyalties."

He raised his large hand, where it glowed in an aura that neither Paladin knew. "If not...then allow me to rectify that."

The dungeon could be mistaken for a slaughter house. The stench of blood and decay was evident as Uther approached the scene of the grisly ambush. He fell upon the lifeless forms of the guards and wardens before he looked at Sage, who lay with a gaping hole in his chest where his heart should be, his eyes staring lifelessly into the abyss. Ballador, the last line of defense, was barely clinging to life, his breaths shallow and pained while Tichondrius' grip tightened around the paladin's throat.

"I'm...sorry... Uther" Ballador croaked, blood bubbling from his mouth before his neck was broken by the grip, with the sound of a unnerving snap echoing the dungeon.

Tichondrius threw Ballador's body to the ground with a careless flick of his wrist behind Uther. He looked at him calculatingly as he regarded Uther. "Your prince sends you to die in his stead?" He hissed. "How...touching."

"The necromancer will not leave this place," Uther declared. "I will see to it that he faces justice for his crimes."

Kel'thuzad chuckled darkly from the side with amusement. "The Light is but a candle in the face of the endless night," he whispered.

"Then let us see if your candle burns bright enough," Tichondrius challenged, his fel-infused hand crackling with dark energy.

Uther raised his war hammer. "May the Light's virtue, guide me...", he prayed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Battle for Lordaeron

The battlefield was no joke in the capital city outskirts. In his previous life, Arthas had faced the Blackrock Clan orcs before as a Paladin and later a Death Knight. But facing them in full force as a Paladin was a task easier said than done. He could feel the power of his right arm beckoning him to use its power, but he was more worried if things would get worse for him if he tried to do it and wouldn't take that chance.

And now, he's facing the Blackrock commanders he remembered as Khanzo and Genjuros, skilled swordsmen of their own right and shared in the fanatical loyalty with their Warchief in their service to the Burning Legion, even when it was clear that the Legion were already done with them unless there was a change that led to them allying with the Scourge rather than fighting them as it happened in his previous life.

Which is odd. He hasn't seen Mal'Ganis leading them from the front as of now if he's supposed to be the one leading the Scourge.

The Blackrock Orcs are as fierce as their zeal to the Legion. Dealing with them back then wasn't so difficult if you have a cursed runeblade to crush them beneath your notice.

Arthas felt his own body acting on instinct as he continued to defend himself against a pair of broadswords, with every clang against his shield that is his war hammer as he continued to parry strike after strike from them. "The Legion will not be denied!" Khanzo roared with zeal. "Every drop of your blood will fuel our masters' return!"

Genjuros, being the quiet one, only swung his blade in a flurry of attacks as he continued to strike Arthas's defenses. The prince found himself hard-pressed to keep up with the duo's relentless assault as their speed and precision made it hard for him to concentrate.

Arthas' right arm, now an icy blue beneath the layers of gloves and gauntlets, thrummed with a malevolent power that was begging to be unleashed. He clicked his tongue in anger, wishing that he could just keep quiet at the meantime

He resisted the temptation for now and his mind was clear despite the pain and fatigue that began to set in for him.

"These humans are a test to our loyalty," Khanzo sneered, "The Legion's wrath will find its mark!"

"And once again, you Orcs proved to be witless if you think the Legion still has any use of you.", Arthas coldly retorted to the Orc.

The two commanders launched a coordinated strike, their blades aiming for Arthas's heart. The prince felt the adrenaline rushing in and raised Light's Vengeance to block their swords, sparks flying everywhere. The weight of their blows pushed him back, but he held firm, his feet digging into the earth.

Gathering his strength, Arthas forced them back after he called upon the Light to push them back when his war-hammer became imbued with it power and send them skidding back. The two renewed their assault at the Prince, whose eyes momentarily glowed an eerie faint turquoise before he shook his head and charging right at them.

"Come on! This way!", Marwyn called out to the civilians who were fleeing to the Undercity as a makeshift shelter and escape route if necessary. He, along with Archbishop Faol and Highlord Morgraine had been in charge in evacuating civilians as soon as the garrison began to mobilize in the city's defense.

"Marwyn!", the captain heard to find Faerlina rushing after him, clearly fearful of what is to come. "What's happening?"

"We're under attack...", the captain gravely informed her. "King Terenas has ordered an evacuation of the civilian population to the Undercity until we are able to push back the invading army."

The botanist looked to find numerous huddled civilians being escorted by the city guard and a few Paladins of the Silver Hand. Lord Goodwin and a few officials made sure the procession was orderly to prevent a stampede that could form out of the fears of these people.

Suddenly, Thassarian came rushing at Marwyn, panting while covered in blood and still holding his bloodstained sword. "Marwyn! Captain Valonforth has been wounded and had been withdrawn from the field! Lord Uther has sent me to inform you to take command of the 1st Legion's second division!", the Lieutenant informed him hastily.

Marwyn took a moment to look at Lina, clicking his tongue in worry. "Understood! I'll be joining you shortly!", he urgently replied before putting on his helmet and began to follow Thassarian outside the city gates.

Faerlina watched him go as a guard began to escort her to the Undercity for her safety but not before before she called out to him. "Marwyn!"

The captain looked back at her to find her worried visage. "Please,", she pleaded. "Be careful."

Marwyn could only nod back with a silent promise to come back to her before he followed Thassarian. The two went outside to find the defenders barely holding on. Mortar teams from the battlements rained down fire onto the invading armies while riflemen from the back provided supporting fire.

Faerlina found Jaina teleporting a group of wounded soldiers, Captain Valonforth among them, into the city, panting as numerous other guards swoop in to retrieve their wounded. "We've been taking losses and are increasing by the hour.", she informed them in between pants of having to use a significant portion of her Mana reserves for a mass teleportation. "I have to get back to aid the others in resisting them."

The botanist rushed over her, giving her a blue vial of that could help her restore her magic reserves which Jaina took appreciatively. "How can I help?", Faerlina inquired.

"If you can, take them to the medical wing to be treated.", Jaina suggested to her, which the botanist pulled out a few tools and potions to act as first aid for the troops until the soldiers could get to them. "Anyone who could help are highly encouraged to head over there."

Without another word, Jaina teleported back to the front where the Kirin Tor mages who are with them continuously casted spells to support the defenders. Sensing the impending danger, rhe sorceress formed a barrier made out of ice when a powerful bolt of lightning came crackling towards her, finding out that one of the Blackrock Shamans, Mazrigos, had fired upon her while riding a massive wolf as his mount. With a wave of his staff, a spirit wolf came charging and pouncing right at her. Jaina's face was inches away from the feral wolf's jaws with her staff keeping the beast at bay until a blast of fire magic from her free hand blasted the creature away.

"Come on, lads!", Muradin bellowed to his comrades, charging ahead with Baelgun as they fought the Abominations and tore through numerous Ghouls and Blackrock warriors against them. "Push these undead bastards back!"

But as more undead converge into their position, the cavalry swooped in and relieved their positions. Muradin looked up to find General Garithos and Captain Bilric taking out the necromancers before they could reanimated the corpses. "Thanks, lad! Extra hands are always a welcome treat!", Muradin commended.

Garithos scoffed in response. "Less drabble and more swinging, dwarf!", he replied, looking over the Orcs and the undead in disgust. "These inhuman dogs must be slain!"

Captain Bilric rode close to his general. "General, the Orc and undead siege weapons are close and we are preparing for a devastating counter-charge to bring those weapons down to stop any more assaults on the weakening city walls.", he reported. "We await for you call, General."

He didn't have to think twice. "Then it's settled! Onward!", he bellowed with his knights, with Captain Bilric closely following him behind.

The dwarves watched him go, and Baelgun couldn't help but snort in annoyance. "He must've been real fun at picnics, isn't he sir?'

"He'll come around Baelgun.", Muradin replied, casually swinging his axe to decapitate an incoming ghoul. "All he needs is a bit of time."

Elsewhere, Wrathjaw and the Alliance defenders grew more intense. The Blackrock Warchief glared at them with hatred as he locked horns with Silver Hand General Reagan Abbendis and his daughter Brigitte. To their shock, Wrathjaw's speed defied his massive size as he continued to seamlessly parried and counterattack every blow landed to him.

Bearing the power of the Holy Light, Reagan's blade met the Warchief's curved broadsword, the impact echoing through the battlefield like a thunderclap. The power behind his swing was immense, sending a shockwave that knocked back the surrounding soldiers. The general, unfazed, tried to press his advantage, but the Warchief was too fast. With a roar that shook the very stones, Wrathjaw grabbed the human by the throat, hoisting him into the air with a grip that could crush steel.

Brigitte saw what was happening and rushed onto him. She swung with all her strength, her axe clanging against Wrathjaw's armor as she tried to free her father. The Orc barely flinched, his grip on Abbendis tightening until the general's face turned a deep shade of blue.

"Father!" she screamed, her fear and anger directed at the red-skinned orc.

But before she could land another strike, Wrathjaw slammed her father onto hard ground. As he raised his weapon to deliver the final blow, a blinding light struck him, and he was momentarily stunned by the power of the Holy Light. It was all the opening Brigitte needed.

With the swiftness of a divine avenger, she struck at Wrathjaw, her own war axe bit into his thick armor. But the Warchief was not easily subdued. He parried her blows with ease, his movements as fluid and precise. And finding an opening, he kneed Brigitte straight into the ribs, sending her sprawling face first onto the ground in pain as he raised his broadblade to finish her off

Narrowing his eyes in anger, Saidan Dathrohan hurled his war hammer at the Fel Orc. It struck Wrathjaw's side, the force of the blow sending him reeling backward before the war hammer returned to Dathrohan's hand.

The momentary distraction allowed Brigitte to regain her footing, and she lunged at the dazed Warchief with a renewed fervor. Her axe sliced through the air, aiming for torso. However, Wrathjaw caught her arm in a vice-like grip and sent her crashing into a group of Alliance soldiers.

The paladin took up his weapon once more, charging forward with the fury of a berserker. His hammer swung in a deadly arc, aimed for Wrathjaw's skull. But the Warchief was quicker, parrying the blow and countering with a crushing punch that sent Dathrohan staggering back. Dathrohan glared at the Warchief, preparing himself of the incoming battle as Wrathjaw came charging right at him.

Back at the dungeons...

Kel'thuzad found himself being fascinated of watching the spectacle before him that would define his freedom or execution. It wasn't an everyday occurrence to watch the Uther the Lightbringer and Tichondrius the Darkener clash in a matter that would've been described as breathtaking, like a pair of shooting stars of contrasting colors clashing at one another.

Uther swung his hammer in a series of powerful arcs, each imbued with the divine essence of the Light. The very fabric of reality seemed to bend around the weapon, releasing a symphony of holy might that crashed against Tichondrius' defenses. The Dreadlord, unfazed, parried with his own sorcery as he swatted those projectiles away and his massive hand moving in to conjure a powerful bolt of crimson lightning. The bolts streaked through the air, a maelstrom of fury that Uther met with his hammer that formed that formed a protective shield around him made of the Holy Light.

As Uther took a moment to regain his bearings, his eyes widened to find Tichondrius charging at him with Fel-infused claws onto his hand. Uther, though outmatched in terms of raw strength, moved with the precision and speed that defied his relatively old age of sixty-four summers. Yet, Tichondrius' agility, a grim parody of the very grace Uther had dedicated his life to protect, left the human knight struggling to keep up.

"You fight well, human," he said, his words dripping with contempt. "Your prince, he holds so much more promise,."

Uther's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What do you speak of?" he demanded.

Tichondrius' cold glare remained. "Your prince," he mused. "Such wasted potential that could have changed the world in ways we could not imagine. But no matter, he will also fall as the rest."

This made Uther ask more questions than what he originally had in mind. He knew kf Arthas's recent... changes, but what are they? The thought of his nephew in all but blood, his pupil, being manipulated by such dark forces was inconceivable that he had to act now.

He had to survive, to warn the others of what he had learned, to let Arthas know what these people had in store for him.

Summoning all his strength and faith, Uther raised his hammer high and charged the demon. The dungeon echoed with the clang of steel and the crackle of lightning as the two clashed once more, each blow resonating through the very bones of the world itself.

Uther's war hammer swung in a blur, each strike aimed with unerring precision at the heart of the shadow that was Tichondrius. The Dreadlord met him blow for blow, his claws crackling with the dark fires of the Nathrezym. The very ground trembled as the two beings danced their deadly waltz, each step a study in power and skill.

With a sudden burst of speed that seemed to defy the very fabric of reality, Uther's hammer streaked through the air like a radiant arc. Yet, Tichondrius mirrored his movements, his claws a twisted reflection of the paladin's grace. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper, as the Dreadlord's dark magic coalesced around him, a swirling maelstrom of malice. Uther's blows grew more frenzied, each swing carrying the weight of his fear for Arthas and his determination to save him.

Tichondrius watched as Uther's once-blazing aura of light grew dimmer with every clash. "Your light fades, Lightbringer," he taunted.

The Dreadlord's eyes narrowed as his left hand began to coalesce in burning Fel energy. Remaining stoic, he swung his arm twice where he sent a barrage of fireballs hurtling towards the paladin. Uther braced himself, his hammer a blur as he smashed through the fiery projectiles, each explosion sending shards of stone and shrapnel spiraling through the dungeon and the others passing through him.

However Tichondrius raised his arm and clenched his fist and those fireballs homed right back at Uther as it engulfed him into a burning inferno, with his own shield projecting fireballs struck the shield with a series of thunderous booms, the heat washing over him in waves that made his skin crawl. Yet, the paladin remained stood his ground against the onslaught.

The moment the last fireball dissipated, Tichondrius was upon him, his claws swiping and slashing with a ferocity that seemed to have surpassed more than any orc he had fought. Each swipe left a trail of dark energy that sizzled against the floor, leaving scorch marks that smoked and hissed. Uther's shield of light flickered with each impact, the holy barrier straining under the relentless assault until it broke, forcing Uther to jump and raise his war hammer against the Dreadlord.

As the paladin reared back for an overhead strike, Tichondrius' form melted away into a swarm of bats, the creatures' shrill cries echoing through the dungeon as they enveloped Uther in a cocoon of darkness. Disoriented, Uther found himself trapped in a hellish illusion where the very ground beneath his feet had transformed into a fiery abyss. The stench of sulfur and brimstone surrounded as flaming pillars erupted around him, their fiery tendrils reaching out to ensnare him in a fiery embrace.

With a roar of defiance, Uther called upon the power of the Light, his hammer burning with a holy aura that pierced the veil of shadows. He swung it in a wide arc, each strike sending waves of searing radiance crashing through the illusion, shattering the flaming obelisks as if they were made of glass. The ground beneath him trembled as he leapedfrogged from one dissolving pillar to the next, the very fabric of the illusion warping and tearing around him. His moved with such speed that left a trail of afterimages in the swirling darkness as he moved with a speed that seemed to defy the very laws of the mortal plane.

"Dispelling the darkness is not so simple, Paladin," the Dreadlord hissed.

Uther's response was his hammer swinging in a wide arc that sent a wave of holy power crashing into Tichondrius, momentarily halting his advance. "Like stopping the dawn after the night, demon!" he replied.

The Dreadlord glared at him. He drew back, his claws crackling with a new, more potent dark magic and with that, he lunged forward once more, his movements a blur of shadow and flame.

Back in the field...

Arthas knew that he was at a disadvantage and his right arm threatened to overwhelm him with each passing moment. Despite his efforts to resist, the cold, icy energy surged through his veins, making his movements quicker, more precise, and eerily similar to those of his death knight days.

Khanzo and Genjuros sensed the change in him, their eyes narrowing as they realized the depth of the prince's hidden strength. They did not know where it came from, but it was something that they needed to address immediately.

Arthas gritted his teeth, dodging the blow with a speed that seemed almost inhuman. He knew he had to end this quickly before he lost control completely. He feigned a retreat, leading the commanders into a trap of his own making. As they pursued, he spun around, his cursed arm now fully engulfed in a frosty aura.

With a roar that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, Arthas swung Light's Vengeance, and an explosion of ice shards erupted from the hammer's head. The shards sliced through the air, peppering the ground around them. The two commanders were caught off guard, but Arthas didn't let the opening slip away. He lunged at Genjuros, whose sword swung down towards him with a vicious arc. However, Khanzo saw this and used the opportunity to raise his blade upwards that sent Light's Vengeance away from Arthas' hands, and Genjuros moved for the finishing blow.

The two commanders watched in sjock as Arthas' right arm caught Genjuros' blade mid-swing. The steel shattered like glass as the prince's hand closed around it, breaking it..

"What... sorcery is this?" Khanzo stuttered, his eyes wide with disbelief. Arthas did not answer, instead allowing the dark power to fully take over his limb. With a flick of his wrist, the glow around his hand materialized into a longsword, the very essence of his power manifested in its icy form. And without wasting time, he stabbed the weapon into the defenseless Genjuros straight at the heart, his expression that of shock and disbelief before his eyes rolled upwards.

His lifeless body hit the ground with a thud, the ice around his chest cracking and shattering into a thousand shards. The sight of his comrade's demise at the hands of the human prince only served to fuel Khanzo's rage. He let out a furious bellow and charged, his massive broadsword held high.

"You will pay for that, you treacherous whelp!" he roared, the flaming runes on his weapon leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Arthas, his grip tight around the icy longsword, knew that he had crossed a line. But now was not the time for regrets.

"This isn't the end, human," Khanzo snarled through gritted teeth. "The Legion will rise again, and when it does, you will fall with the rest of your kind!"

"The only thing that will end...", Arthas pointed his weapon at the Orc while his eyes glowed for a yellowish hue for a moment. "Is your blind foley to the Legion."

The two clashed again, their swords screaming as they met in a shower of sparks. Arthas' icy blade met the fiery fury of Khanzo's weapon. The Prince knew he had to end this quickly. With a swift motion, he dug the frozen longsword into the ground, the impact sending a shockwave that momentarily stunned Khanzo. In a blur of motion, Arthas' left hand materialize a dagger of pure, frost-covered malice. He lunged at the commander, their right arms still intertwined.

"You dare to challenge the might of the Legion?" Khanzo sneered, his own strength seemingly unwavering.

"I dare to challenge your delusion," Arthas retorted, the cold edge of the dagger glinting in the moonlight. With a series of swift strikes, he stabbed the orc in the chest, each blow precise and powerful. The first pierced through his armor, the second found its mark in the heart, and the third severed the lifeblood from his throat by slashing it as the Prince whirled.

Khanzo's eyes went wide, the hatred and anger fading into shock and disbelief. He stumbled back, dropping his sword as the dagger's icy embrace released him. The prince stepped back, watching as his opponent's life fade away his very eyes.

Arthas felt a surge of revulsion as he raised his cursed right hand. He knew he had no choice but to use this forbidden might to save his comrades. He closed his eyes, opening his right palm to channel the familiar power he had used. As he opened them again, a cold turqoise light burst forth, enveloping the lifeless forms of Khanzo and Genjuros. Their bodies convulsed as the necromantic energy flowed through them, resurrecting them as mindless, shambling monstrosities.

"Rise," Arthas ordered in a cold and commanding tone. The two undead orcs lurched to their feet. "Defend your new master," he added, pointing to the horde of Blackrock Orcs and Scourge that surrounded his friends.

The resurrected commanders didn't hesitate, charging into the fray with a ferocity that seemed to be fueled by their very hatred for the living. Their swords, now extensions of the his will, cleaved through the enemy ranks with unnatural strength, leaving a wake of cold and death in their path.

Back at the dungeons...

It came when the avatar of light resolved into the lineage of the Light. It came when Uther found himself alone against the dark. In that power personifying malevolence and blur of unspoken power, his vision finally pierced the darkness that had clouded the Light.

Uther had seen the truth.

This truth: that he, the Lightbringer, the fiercest, most implacable, most devastatingly powerful foe the darkness had ever known... just-didn't—have it.

He'd never had it. He had lost before he started. He had lost before he was born.

This was no ordinary enemy. No more Orcs or undead that he had fought. They are not prepared for what is to come, as it was becoming clear that they have been preparing for this for who knows when.

While the Alliance had spent the past decades training to refight the last war.

The new enemy could not be destroyed with any weapon; they could not be burned away by any torch of the Light. The brighter his light, the darker their shadow. How could one win a war against the dark, when the very light itself had become the dark's own weapon?

There, he understood. The true power deception brings. And how they used it to their very advantage.

The dungeon walls seemed to groan under the pressure of their power, the very stones trembling with each impact. Uther swung his hammer with the full might of the Light behind it, each strike personifying his undying conviction of the Light.

That was only caught by the hand of the demon in front of him and his eyes widened to see his free hand clenched into a fist that darted onto his body.

The impact of Tichondrius' fist against Uther's ribs was like the collision of two worlds, sending the paladin reeling and skidding across the floor, leaving a trail of his own blood. He hit the wall with a sickening thud, his breath escaping in a wheezing gasp as he barely stood. The Dreadlord's indifference transformed into a cold sneer. Raising his hand, Tichondrius gathered a maelstrom of fel energy, a dark mirror of the holy power that Uther wielded. Jis clawed fingers seeped with malevolence as the crimson energy grew, pulsing with the rhythm of a dying star.

Uther's eyes widened in alarm as the demon's hand shot forward, releasing a colossal blast of fel energy that threatened to consume him entirely. The paladin's muscles bulged with the effort of raising his war hammer to act as a shield against the impending doom. The moment the dark force made contact with the hammer, the air around them exploded with the sound of shattering glass, a symphony of chaos and holy might clashing in a display of power that neither side had ever anticipated. Sparks danced across the metal surface of the hammer as the energy ricocheted off, illuminating the dungeon with a sickening red glow that cast eerie shadows on the walls.

Uther's knees buckled against the ground he dug in, fighting to maintain his footing. The hammer in his hand trembled and groaned under the weight of the dark magic. With a deafening crack, the once-indestructible weapon of his order splintered into a hundred pieces, the shards flying in every direction, leaving the paladin's hand empty and his heart heavy. The dark energy surged around him, a living, malevolent entity seeking to claim his soul.

The impact of the unfiltered attack sent Uther hurtling through the wall, his body contorting in agony as the dark power seared his very flesh. He slammed into the cold, hard ground with a thud, with the force of the blow knocking the breath from his lungs. His armor was now scorched and blackened, the metal groaning under the weight of the corrupting energy that clung to it like a second skin.

The necromancer's hands lowly clapped in applause. "A brilliant display, Tichondrius.", Kel'thuzad commented with satisfaction. "I reckon it has been a while since you have taken matters to your own hands."

Tichondrius turned to the paladin as he lay on the ground, gasping for air. "Your display is rather...admirable." he commended before he raised his hand which glowed a sickly green hue. "As with all things, I am afraid it has finally come to an end."

Uther remained defiant, though pained, managed to force out his reply. "Do your worst, demon," he spat.

Kel'thuzad smirked. "A very poor choice of words, Sir Uther.", he commented.

The Dreadlord leaned in closer. "Your prince," he mused, causing Uther's eyes to widen at the mention of Arthas again as if he had been so familiar with it., "has such wasted potential. But you on the other hand..." He extended a clawed hand and poked Uther's forehead, bringing the Lightbringer to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

Jaina felt her knees buckle as Mazrigos' own bolt of lightning clashed her own. She could feel her mana reserves getting dangerously low, but she won't allow that to stop her. Gathering her strength, she forced his attack upwards into the sky before delivering a straight one onto his chest and knocking him out of his wolf mount.

With her eyes glowing in the arcane, she called upon a final hailstorm that skewered many of the ghouls and the orc warriors before her. But just as two Blackrock warriors came charging right at her, they were slain by a pair of broken broadblades that made Jaina look up what was happening.

She watched in astonishment as the two now-undead commanders being Genjuros and Khanzo turned on their orc brethren. The sight of his them standing once more, albeit as mindless husks of their former selves was unsettling as she she could surmise who could be responsible for this.

"What have you done?" Jaina whispered as soon as she took a good look at him.

Arthas looked over at her, tired. "I had no choice," he regretfully replied. "We needed all the help we could get.."

She looked at him with concern and admiration and she stepped closer, her hand hovering over his shoulder. "Just be careful," she whispered simply, knowing that Arthas would know his limits.

"Always," Arthas managed a small smile before returning to the fight.

But just as they were about to assist Dathrohan against Wrathjaw, whom Arthas had once considered to be the strongest for he had faced when he exterminated the Blackrock Clan in Lordaeron, what he saw next caused his heart to stop as did Jaina when it teleported beside Wrathjaw, knocking Dathrohan from his feet.

"Tichondrius...", Arthas uttered the name like a disease, recognizing the leader of the Nathrezim who acted as his 'observant' during his early Death Knight days. Jaina too recognized him from his memories, and he is considered to be much, much stronger than Mal'Ganis as the leader of their kind.

But what they saw, was Kel'thuzad beside Tichondrius, smirking at them. And the unconscious form of Uther, carried by Tichondrius by the collar.

Arthas and Jaina, standing at the gates, watched in horror as Uther lay unmoving on the ground, his once-shining armor now scarred and smoking from the Dreadlord's attack.

He turned to Wrathjaw, who was still locked in combat with Dathrohan. "The necromancer is ours," Tichondrius declared, his voice a chilling whisper that seemed to resonate through the very stones of the city. "Our work here is done."

"But we haven't found and tore apart their King!", the orc protested in anger.

Tichondrius remained calm, but Wrathjaw felt an aura that demanded no other questions. "He will in time. But the next phase of the Legion's return is at hand, and I expect that you and your clan's cooperation would have a hand to its return."

Wrathjaw begrudgingly complied as he signaled Mazrigos to signal the retreat while Mal'Ganis and Detheroc conjured portals to make their escape from there.

Arthas felt his heart being ripped apart from here. He had ended Uther's life before. And his decision to send him to the dungeons, may have sealed his mentor's fate. "NO!" he cried out in despair, as he charged towards the retreating Dreadlord. "Uther!"

Jaina grabbed Arthas's arm to keep him from charging after them. "We can't," she gasped, her own heart breaking at the sight. "The portals are closing! We'll be trapped with them if we go now!"

The rest of the Silver Hand could only watch helplessly as as they tried to follow behind Arthas.

But Tichondrius wanted to send a message first and foremost. And the attack was only an example.

"A parting gift, for you, Arthas," he sneered, raising his hand to conjure several meteor-like objects that streaked through the sky and struck the heart of the city in several fiery explosions.

"The throne room!" Saidan yelled in shock as he regained his bearings. "It's where the king was last seen!

This act only horrified and enraged the defenders as many began to scramble back to the Capital city while Arthas hatefully looked at the Dreadlord. "TICHONDRIUS!" the Prince roared, the ground trembling with his fury as the dust and debris began to settle. He began to have the horrifying conclusion that his father, the king, could be dead.

"You monster," he added amidst the turmoil. "You will pay for this!"

Without another word, he sprinted towards the city, Jaina and the Silver Hand knights following closely behind. The sight of his once-mighty capital in ruins filled him with a grief so profound it threatened to consume him. His mind raced with the thought of his father's fate, his heart heavy with the weight of his failure.

As they approached Lordaeron Keep, the chaos grew louder, the smell of burning wood and screams of the dying reaching their ears. Arthas pushed himself to run faster, his determination to save his father overcoming his fear.

The doors to the keep lay in shambles, and as Arthas burst inside, his heart sank at the sight of the destruction within. The once-grand hallways were now filled with the wreckage of his homeland's pride, the echoes of battle still lingering in the air.

"To the throne room, now!" he bellowed to his comrades, not daring to let his hope die just yet. They charged through the wreckage, their footsteps echoing in the emptiness of the shattered keep.

Tichondrius had made his escape through the closing portal, the fading light revealing the unconscious form of Uther in his clutches. The prince felt a cold rage building within him, a rage that would not be quenched until the Dreadlord paid for his treachery.

But first, he had to find his father.

Arthas and the knights pushed through the debris to look for any sign of life. They heard a faint cry of pain, and there, through the dust and rubble, he saw his sister, Calia, who is now marred by grime and bruises. "Arthas!" she sobbed, stumbling towards him. "Father is still there!"

The words struck Arthas and his fears realized. He didn't waste a moment, sprinting to her side and looking the area she indicated. There, they found him, King Terenas, unconscious and pinned under a massive support pillar that had crushed the throne room. "FATHER!" he cried out in anguish.

Garithos and Saidan rushed to his side. "Help me!" Arthas bellowed, his voice thick with emotion. Together, the three men heaved with all their might where the pillar groaned as it shifted, revealing the king's crumpled form.

"He's alive," Arthas murmured in relief as he applied the gentle warmth of the Holy Light. The king's chest rose and fell shallowly which was a result of the severity of his injuries. "Healers, now!" he called out, signalling a few soldiers to rush over to find him while the Prince continued to provide first aid.

Arthas didn't know what to think at this point.

He had killed his father in his previous life, but his decision to spare Kel'thuzad only led to his father's critical state and the invasion of the capital.

So did he do the same for Uther, but his decision to send him to the dungeons to make sure Kel'thuzad does not escape only resulted of him running into Tichondrius this time.

Arthas felt like he wanted to slam his head onto a wall after he kept thinking back of those decisions he had made.

His father's eyes barely opened, and he looked up at his son with a gaze that seemed to see through the veil of time. "Arthas..." he rasped in relief.

"Father, I'm here," Arthas tearfully choked out. "You're safe. The enemy...they're no longer here."

It was a half-truth and a half-lie. He couldn't bring himself to tell his father the truth.

Terenas reached a trembling hand to his son's cheek. His touch was like a knife to Arthas' heart, reminding him of the love that his father unconditionally shown him even after all that he had done. "I'm so sorry, Father," he choked out as he held Terenas closely amidst the tears. "I'm so sorry for everything."

The king's grip tightened, a hint of understanding in his gaze. "You are... you are my son," he whispered . "And I... I am proud of you."

The words hit Arthas like a blow, his sorrow and regret threatening to overwhelm him. He held his father's hand, his own trembling, as the healers arrived and began their work. While he watched in anguished silence.

Jaina leaned in closer to comfort him, as did Muradin and Falric when Arthas broke down. The soldiers who were with them, as well as the Silver Hand knights looked at the scene with sorrow as with vengeance for what the Scourge had done to their kingdom.

This was only the beginning for Arthas. And he very well knew that each step will be more treacherous than the last.

Spectre: Next stop will be in preparation for Quel'thalas.

Chapter Text

The next few days in the capital of Lordaeron were a somber affair, as the battlefield was a desolate, gloomy place after the recent siege .

Falric and Muradin stood outside the keep's entrance as they looked at the damage caused by both the Scourge and the Blackrock Clan. The bodies of both invaders and defenders lay scattered, a result of such carnage that had happened. Arthas had given the order for the bodies to remain undisturbed at the meantime until it could be decided what to do with them.

"I worry for him," Falric somberly stated. "To have such responsibilities after the loss of Uther and King Terenas in a grievous state, with so much loss..."

Muradin nodded, sharing the Captain's concerns. "He's strong, but this... even the mightiest of kings would falter."

"Do you think he can handle it?" Falric asked.

Muradin sighed, but he was hopeful too. "He's a strong lad," he replied. "For his father's sake, and for his home, I know he won't let us down."

They thought of Arthas and his current role. The prince had always been a warrior, a leader, but now he faced the challenge of being a ruler in a time like this.

In the makeshift healing ward set up outside the damaged Lordaeron Keep, Jaina and Arthas awaited news of his father's condition. The Prince paced back and forth, constantly worried for his father's condition and the hope that he would survive. Jaina sat rigidly on a nearby cot, seeing Arthas in such a state only caused her to be anxious, clearly remembering his mental state when he first went to Stratholme.

The priestess emerged from the king's chamber where Arthas quickly rushed to her side. "How is he?"

She hesitated as she thought of the Prince's reaction. "Your father is a strong man, Prince Arthas," she said softly. "But his wounds are severe. The Light is with him, but it may not be enough."

Jaina was shocked and completely worried as Arthas' shoulders slumped. "What can we do?" she asked, inwardly trying to make a solution herself that would make things better.

The priestess sighed. "For now, all we can do is pray and wait," she sadly replied. "His fate rests in the hands of the Light."

Arthas felt his own chest tighten, distraught and sorrowed of the news. He looked over to Jaina to find her sharing the despair and anguish. With a heavy heart, Arthas nodded to the healer. "Thank you."

The healer left and Arthas faced the wall next to him feeling his emotions boil over where his fist found its mark on the wall. "DAMN IT!", he roared in frustration as he punched the wall again and again while starting to smell his own blood leaking from his knuckles. "DAMN IT! DAMN IT! DAMN IT!"

Sending Uther to the dungeons to make sure Kel'thuzad doesn't escape was one thing that caused him to run into Tichondrius and the failure to protect his own father sent him over the edge. He had tried to hard to make sure neither men have to suffer at his hand, but it seemed that fate decided to play a cruel jest onto his well-being.

Jaina rushed to Arthas' side as he continued to pummel the wall in his anger and grief. "Arthas, stop!" she pleaded, as she grabbed his arms to stop his onslaught. "You'll only hurt yourself more!"

Arthas's eyes snapped at their with anger and despair. "They're gone," he uttered through gritted teeth. "Both of them. Uther, my father...because of...!"

With a gentle yet firm touch, Jaina placed her hand on his arm, halting his assault. "It's not your fault," she tried to assure him. "You can't control everything that happens around you."

He jerked away from her touch. "But I could have!" he roared. "I should have killed Kel'thuzad again when I had the chance! And I should have never sent Uther away! Now they're...in whatever fate they're in..."

Her sorrow and grief for him was visible as she stepped closer to him. "Arthas," she began softly, reaching up to wipe a smear of blood from his bruised knuckles. "It's not too late for either of them. We are still able to save both."

His body slumped as he took a seat close to him while Jaina knelt down and cupped his cheek.

Jaina's gentle touch calmed him down. She knelt before him, bearing the same pain but is equally determined . "Everything is not okay," she admitted. "But that's alright, because we're human, Arthas. We make mistakes, and we feel guilty. It's what makes us who we are." She sighed for a moment, hoping she would be able to reach him. "But what we can't do is let that guilt take over or make us doubt ourselves. Remember what we talked about when we were on the way home from Northrend?"

She brushed a stray tear away from his cheek. "We've come so far," she continued. "We've seen so much, lost so much. I can't... I can't imagine what it's like for you, to lose your father again." She paused. "But I need you to be strong," she pleaded. "For yourself, for us, for your father, for everyone you care about."

He couldn't bear to look at her for a moment before he raised his head up. "I know," he uttered, acknowledging her words. "I'll... I'll do my best."

Jaina leaned in closer. "That's all I ask," she said. "Trust in yourself, Arthas. Trust that you can still save them."

He calmed down completely as she held him close. "Thank you," he uttered as his eyes closed when he leaned into her touch. He remembered as to why he was sent back here.

He would not fail again.

He would save his father, and he would save Uther.

And he would do whatever it took to ensure that the people of Lordaeron had a king they could be proud of.

As long as he breathed, he would fight for them.

The two of them remained there, in the quiet embrace of shared pain and hope, drawing strength from each other in the face of the dark days to come.

The next day felt like attending a funeral.

With his father wounded and remaining unconscious, it falls to him to fill in his shoes.

Ever since he was a boy and being trained as a King, he dreamt at what being a king is really like. Frankly, he learned that it was not what it seemed for him as time passed by.

When he was a Death Knight and later Lich King, he dreamed of turning Azeroth into a massive necropolis where the dead reign supreme.

When he was brought back to the present, he had hoped that he would still sit beside his father to truly learn to become the King that his homeland needed.

He didn't expect that his father's responsibilities to fall to him so soon, especially after he last spoke with him when he admitted to Terenas that he still has much to learn if he wished to be king.

And so when he and Jaina came to the meeting hall (the throne room is severely damaged to be used), he walked inside to find numerous government officials, military officers and of the Silver Hand many of whom were weary of the brazen attack that was inflicted onto the capital, Arthas felt slightly overwhelmed, but he had to be strong for the people.

He sighed heavily to release some of the pressure when he approached the table where he looked at the attendees before him. They all shared his grief and exhaustion, particularly the losses that were sustained, particularly that of the Lightbringer himself.

"Thank you all for coming.", Arthas bellowed to the attendees as he took a seat with Jaina behind him. "As my father is... unavailable right now, I would have to address the issues that befell our Kingdom. Status reports?"

Alexandros first spoke up. "Your Highness," he began. "The casualties are...staggering. We're still tallying them, but I fear we've lost at least three thousand souls to this heinous assault."

Lord Goodwin stepped forward with worry. "And the farmlands, Your Highness," he began. "They've been overrun by the Scourge when have infected the granaries and the crops with the same plague that infected that of Andorhal. If we don't receive aid, famine will surely follow in the wake of this devastation."

Arthas felt every fiber of his being screamed for him to despair at the misfortune that befell his kingdom, pinching his forehead as he thought of ways to mitigate the impending crisis.

"Send word to King Varian," Arthas ordered, aware that he could at least partially have his childhood friend repay the favor his father gave him when Lordaeron spent significant resources rebuilding Stormwind. "Tell him to send aid to combat the undead and to warn him of the possibility of any acolytes of the Scourge infiltrating their kingdom."

General Reagan Abbendis spoke up next. "And what of the northern borders, Your Highness?" he asked in urgency. "Intelligence reports that the Blackrock Clan has broken through former Alterac and Stromgarde territory, releasing the orcs held in our internment camps. And as we speak, their numbers have grown to aid the Scourge."

Arthas took a moment to think. The Blackrock Clan hasn't been this strong when he annihilated them with the Scourge in his previous life. And it is clear that Jubei'thos, or Wrathjaw, their Warchief, answer to Tichondrius. "Send reinforcements to the Tirisfal Glades immediately to hold their positions until we are able to properly lift the siege."

The officials nodded scribbling down notes and issuing orders to their aides.

He looked to find Gavinrad and Saidan, now acting leaders of the Silver Hand following Uther's capture by Tichondrius. Then to Garithos, awaiting his orders.

"And of the bodies?", Arthas asked tentatively. "Are they not interred yet?"

"Not yet, your Highness.", Garithos spoke up. "They are lined up as you ordered. Awaiting your call on what to do with them."

He had made up his mind "Burn them," he ordered, to the shock of a few officials. "All of them. We can't have the Scourge using our fallen as weapons against us. See to it that it is done with the utmost respect and haste."

Garithos nodded, glancing at Captain Bilric to relay those orders to his men. "As you command, Your Highness."

Turning to Gavinrad and Saidan, the new acting leaders of the Silver Hand, Arthas' gave out his new orders. "The Scourge will not stop at our borders," he warned. "I need you to relocate the order to the Capital where it could be coordinated from there. Stratholme is too exposed, too vulnerable."

Gavinrad looked troubled. "But what of the people of Stratholme, Your Highness?"

"We will do what we can for them," he assured him, "but our priority now is to protect the heart of Lordaeron and to prepare for the worst." He paused, then added, "And that includes conscription. We need every able-bodied man and woman to stand with us against this enemy."

With Kel'thuzad in the hands of the Legion and the Scourge, their next target is naturally Quel'thalas. For their population and the Sunwell. And hopefully, King Anasterian and Ranger-General Sylvanas would be able to listen.

Arthas stood from his seat to address these meeting. "Quel'Thalas will be the next target," he declared. "We would need to reinforce their defenses and prevent the Scourge from claiming the Sunwell, lest we face dire consequences."

This did not go well with the others in the meeting. Particularly when King Anasterian withdrew most of the Quel'dorei during the previous war. And of their personal feelings as well as strategic ones.

"With respect, Your Highness...", Garithos stood up to voice his concerns, or rather his own personal opinions that didn't view the elves in a good light. "Why should they we waste on the resources we have on those who left us hanging in the previous war? Those tree huggers likely sat back and sneered while our city got hammered by those rotting savages and their green skinned friends!"

Arthas sighed at his behaviour. Sheesh, did he really have to launch an entire tirade of racial slurs?

"They didn't abandon us," Jaina interjected, her voice clear and steady. "And we can't abandon then. The Sunwell is not just their source of power; it's their life. If it falls, it's not just Quel'Thalas that's lost, but all of us."

However, other seem to agree with Garithos' opinion, except for the last part. "The general speaks sense, Your Highness.", Saidan spoke next. "Our resources and our manpower are too stretched to form an expeditionary force large enough to aid the Quel'dorei. We need every man available for the defense of the homeland."

Gavinrad also voiced his support of his fellow Paladin's opinion. "We have to also consider the possibility that this is a test to see how far would the capital last in a prolonged siege. They must have done this to soften our defenses and eventually pave way for a full-scale invasion."

"What of the other Kingdoms?", Lord Goodwin asked. "Could we ask for their assistance?"

"The Kirin Tor and Kul'tiras are ready to stand with Lordaeron.", Jaina informed him. "Antonidas has sent in several magi to to Lordaeron's army. Lord Admiral Proudmoore has been informed to ferry civilians who wished to escape the carnage to Kul'tiras or to the safety of neighboring kingdoms."

"Ironforge will see to it that Lordaeron gets it needs", Muradin then spoke up. "I'll send word to King Magni if we're going to keep those undead bastards out of our turf."

Arthas saw that it seemed to ease the worries of several officials before him. "And what of your father, the King?" another official spoke up in concern. "Shouldn't you remain here to lead in his stead?"

Fortunately, Arthas had thought of that as well. "I trust in my advisors to handle the matters of state," he declared. "But this is a threat to our very existence. If Quel'Thalas falls, the consequences will be dire for all of us."

"How so, your Highness?", Garithos questioned. "If their magic and their superiority is as strong as they see themselves, why would need to bother with them?"

The Prince sighed. "Would you rather face an undead horde of Elves marching into Blackwood, Lord Garithos?", he challenged, which silenced the general.

It calmed down, though their worries for the human city-state conflicted with their mistrust of the elves. "I will personally lead the expedition," he announced. "We cannot wait for the council to debate while the enemy marches closer to our ally."

The officials looked at one another when it was clear that the Prince's choice left no room for debate. "I trust my sister, Calia Menethil, to serve as Regent in my stead," he added, which caused whispers and doubt of his questionable choice. "While I am away, she will govern with the guidance of a chancellor chosen by me."

"But Your Highness, she has no experience in such matters," Lord Goodwin pointed out in concern.

"That is why I will appoint a chancellor who will both guide and assist her," Arthas reassured them. "Given enough time, she would be able to act as a stand-in until I get back."

The commanders and officials looked uncertain but they had little choice but to trust in his judgment, even though he had the record of acting rashly

As for the home guard, Arthas revealed nothing of his choice for the commander. "I am still considering candidates," he said cryptically. "Rest assured, the protection of Lordaeron will be in capable hands."

And who would he consider?

"Now we need to prioritize the immediate threat," Arthas concluded. "We will meet again in two days' time to discuss the preparations for our defense of Quel'Thalas. Until then, I expect each of you to ready your forces and report any new developments. Dismissed."

The room emptied slowly and as the last official exited the makeshift war room, Arthas let out a deep sigh while Jaina placed a hand on his shoulder to help him calm down.

"This is not what I expected how my first day as Lordaeron's ruler would be, even if temporarily.", Arthas remarked in a muffled tone as he placed his hands on his face.

"In a crisis like this, I certainly can't blame you, Arthas.", Jaina quipped, attempting to brighten the mood. "But still, can we be sure that Lady Sylvanas has been warned?"

"If they're willing to hear me out that is.", Arthas replied, standing up to meet up with someone outside the capital city. "I'll be right back, Jaina. There's someone that I need to find first."

Far from the capital city, Tirion Fording was hunched over a small fire as he looked down in deep thought. The undead have been running rampant, and stories began to spread like wildfire they the capital city was recently attacked.

Since his exile, Tirion hoped Karandra and Taelan are still safe and thriving. It was a welcome gesture Uther had given before his official exile for protecting an Orc.

"Tirion Fordring." A voice called out.

Tirion turned around,chammer at the ready. He saw a man he had not seen in years. A man he'd once swore loyalty to. A man who exiled him because of his decision to try and save Eitrigg from being killed and seeing differently from other people. For freeing, one innocent prisoner who was meant to be executed for his race.

Mutually, Arthas remembered conducting that trial as one of his judges. But now, he regretted that decision as time passed by. And he is looking at the man who shattered Frostmourne that led to his defeat.

"Prince Arthas.", Tirion greeted him in a plain but neutral tone. "What brings you to this desolate place."

"Rumors of a nomad who heals the injured and on occasion defends the innocent from the undead," Arthas replied. "Since he wielded such a weapon I thought I might see who it was."

"Well, now you see me," Tirion said back, uninterested to what he would have to say. "Kindly leave me to my exile."

"Lordaeron needs you, Tirion," Arthas stated to him in a pleading tone. "King Terenas is in a critical state, and the kingdom is in peril."

Tirion's expression softened at the mention of his king, but he remained steadfast. "My service is no longer wanted there," he said. "My lands and title are lost to me. I am but a disgrace now."

"They can be restored," Arthas offered. "If you help us in our time of need."

Tirion's eyes narrowed as he studied the prince before him. "What makes you think I would even consider it?"

Arthas took a deep breath. "Uther has been taken," he said, the words heavy with regret. "I...I played a part in his capture."

The revelation took Tirion back. "What?" he breathed. "How? And why?"

"The undead," Arthas confessed. "They have infiltrated our lands, and Uther was defeated and captured during the chaos of Lordaeron being besieged by both the undead and their orc allies."

"And what of him now?", Tirion pressed.

"We do not know," Arthas admitted, inwardly hoping that they would be able to get to him as soon as possible. "But I cannot stand idly by while my mentor suffers."

The exiled paladin was skeptical. But Uther had been one of the people who voted against his exile, and even prevented his wife and son from being exiled with him. "And what would you have me do?" he finally asked.

"It is something that I am still considering, and I can assure you that the rest will not be opposed by my choice.", Arthas simply replied

Tirion looked down for a moment, seeing the apology within the Prince for his role in exiling him. "I need time to think.", he said in consideration.

Calia couldn't imagine what she was feeling right now.

Ever since she had come to age, she never imagined herself being given any responsibilities other than perhaps securing alliances like she originally had with Lord Prestor of Alterac before he vanished. And since then, she was relegated to the background and had secretly married behind her father's back to a man that she knew Terenas would never approve of.

And now, Calia had been approached by Arthas where he told her that he would be assigning her as Regent of Lordaeron while he is away to assist the elves of Quel'thalas against an imminent Scourge invasion. But the problem is, she had no idea how to govern nor she was trained by it. And she knew it.

"But, Arthas," Calia protested. "I know nothing of ruling a kingdom."

Arthas however, looked slightly confident. "Callie," he gently began, "father is not able lead right now, and I have to go to Quel'Thalas. You are the only one I can trust to keep our people safe and our homeland unified in my absence."

"Arthas," Calia whispered. "I don't think I could do this."

He took her hands in his own. "You won't," he assured her. "I will appoint a wise and trustworthy chancellor to guide you, and I've already chosen a capable home guard commander to protect you from any schemes the nobility might conjure.".

"But," he added, "think of it this way. If you prove yourself capable during this time and if Father recovers, he would see that you are more capable than what he gave you credit for. And I would personally talk to him to convince him to accept your little secret."

With those words, and Calia felt determined. If there was a chance she could not only help her people but also be with her beloved and not lose her family, she would do whatever it takes. "Very well, I'll do what I can, Arthas."

Arthas smiled at her. "I'm sure you would, Callie. I'll be here if you needed help."

Meanwhile near the borders of Quel'thalas...

Kel'thuzad took his time to think.

Naturally, he never trusted Tichondrius, knowing that his role in getting him out of that dungeon is meant to be a 'favor' that Kel'thuzad needed to return by complying with his wishes as the new leader of the Scourge. Tichondrius always assumed the worst of every being, which put the necromancer on his toes that forced him to be careful at the meantime.

And so far, he needed time to prepare, and he looked up to find two of his most devoted followers in the Cult of the Damned, Lord Alexei Barov and Baron Rivendare who are now wanted fugitives in Lordaeron for their association with him. The two had been teleported out by Tichondrius himself after he had dealt with Uther. Kel'thuzad couldn't help but admire the improvements he had made onto them upon their release.

"Greetings, my friends," Kel'thuzad said to the two former nobles who were on horseback. "How do you find your new forms?"

Baron Rivendare and Lord Barov, exchanged glances in their new forms that Kel'thuzad took pride as the Scourge's new Death Knights. "It is...exhilarating," Rivendare spoke in awe. "The power we now wield is unlike anything we could have dreamed of in our mortal lives."

"Yes," Barov chimed. "We feel...transcendent. Above the concerns of the living."

"Good," Kel'thuzad nodded. "You will find that immortality is quite an intoxicating gift."

The two Death Knights looked at each other. "What do you mean, master?" Barov asked.

The necromancer leaned back in the tree in deep thought. "Tichondrius is a means to an end for now," he revealed. "His assistance is necessary for my rebirth once we reach Quel'Thalas. But make no mistake," he continued, "do not trust him hastily. It is their nature after all."

The two undead lords bowed. "We serve Ner'zhul," Rivendare affirmed. "Our loyalty is to him, and through him, to you."

Then, Tichondrius arrived which made Kel'thuzad and his Death Knights to be quiet as they have arrived at their presence.

"Kel'thuzad," Tichondrius bellowed as he had teleported to their presencd. "I trust you and your new...companions have settled into your roles within the Scourge."

The necromancer rose to his feet. "Our preparations are going as planned," he replied in compliance but his distrust was clear. "But what of the High Elf defense? The Ban'dinoriel is said to be impenetrable."

"I have been in contact with one of their own. And his knowledge would prove to be useful in the long run.", Tichondrius replied. "With his aid, Sunwell should be in our control before the Prince and his troops arrive to reinforce them.".

"But what of Ranger-General Windrunner and her Farstriders?" Barov asked. "Are they aware of our presence?"

Tichondrius turned to him. "They have dismissed the Prince's warnings as paranoia. They will not know what lies before them when we come for them."

"Our preparations need to be complete with haste," the Dreadlord urged. "Gather your forces and begin the assault. Lady Sylvanas and her temper may be a very useful tool to exploit"

Just as they spoke, Wrathjaw approached Tichondrius, looking gruff befitting to a beast like him. "The Syndicate scum has been dealt with and their corpses are yours to use, Dreadlord.", the Fel Orc reported.

Tichondrius looked pleased. "Excellent. This will be useful for our incursion into Quel'thalas. And I suspect that your men would like to have a fill when it comes to Elf blood, is it?"

"Indeed," Wrathjaw growled. "The Elves have always looked down on our brethren, hiding behind their fancy trees and their trickery," he spat. "Burning their very homeland will prove to be a revelry."

"And you will have it, Warchief," the Dreadlord promised him. "We would need as much bodies as we could muster."

The fel orc nodded. "I will be having Throk'Feroth and Haomarush to assist us," he rumbled. "Sooner or later, their spires will burn."

Tichondrius watched the Blackrock Warchief leave, and glanced at Kel'thuzad, Rivendare and Barov, who followed suit to prepare the Scourge for the invasion.

Funeral pyres were all around the outskirts of the city as they burned the bodies of the fallen defenders and invaders alike. Falric and Marwyn approached Arthas, who was clenching his right arm as he watched civilians being rationed with uninfected supplies under close watch of the Kirin Tor. "The 1st Legion is ready to march, Your Highness," Falric reported. "As soon as the supplies are secured, we can set out for Quel'Thalas."

Marwyn added, "We've seen worse, Prince Arthas. They're battle-hardened and eager to fight for their king."

Arthas nodded. While other regiments were needed to for the homeland defense, he could always rely on the first Legion. those were the same soldiers who had fought beside him in Northrend and thought highly of them. And now, they were willing to follow him again. He knew he had to be worthy of their trust.

Jaina walked over to Arthas, looking relieved. "I've received word from my father.", she informed him. "The first refugees are aboard ships en route Stormwind and Ironforge. We could expect the numbers to increase if things went wrong."

Arthas took her hand and squeezed it. "Tell Admiral Proudmoore he has my thanks.", he relayed to her. "There wouldn't be a nation without its people. So even if Lordaeron lost lands, it'll still be alive as long as there are others who live to believe in it."

The sorceress took her time to remember, slowly guiding Arthas away from Falric and Marwyn who were busy organizing the troops. "Arthas, while we saw how the Scourge invasion of Quel'thalas played out, it did fell because of your leadership of the Scourge.", she began first. "Can it be said that we should be able to deal with it without you leading them?"

Arthas took a moment to think. "While it did, it's largely because the Scourge are untested waters for them to swim of. Sylvanas was determined to stand her ground and give battle to protect her homeland, but it only ended up giving the Scourge more bodies to use as troops until she was outnumbered by the time I've entered Silvermoon."

"So how do we deal with it?", Jaina carefully asked.

"If we're lucky and that Dar'khan was apprehended, then fine. At least the Ban'dinoriel would be able to hold the Scourge. All hope of victory or pushing them back ended when Dar'khan murdered the Magisters operating it.", the Prince informed her. "If they didn't... we'll just have to convince them their error and have them find Dar'khan before he would cause any more damage."

Jaina nodded. "At this point we might need to make our own luck.", she remarked.

"That we do, Jaina.", Arthas agreed. "That we do."

Five days later

Jenalla Deemspring prided herself as one of the Farstriders, having fought under Ranger-Captain Alleria Windrunner prior to the latter joining the Alliance expedition and Quel'thalas' withdrawal from the Alliance. As such, she considers herself to be among Quel'thalas' finest warriors.

But nothing prepared her for this.

She and her platoon are surrounded by a large number of undead and Blackrock Orcs at the very borders of Quel'Thalas. Her arrows flew true, piercing the cold hearts of the Scourge's minions but they seemed endless. She watched to find Lord Barov cutting down elf after elf with his runeblade with a savagery that chilled her to the bone. Each fallen warrior rose again to fight for the very enemy they had just died resisting.

"Fall back!" she called out to her comrades in a desperate bid to regroup. "Fall back! We must warn Lady Sylvanas!"

With a heavy heart, she knew she had to make a choice. She couldn't save them all, but she could save some by getting the message out.

Jenalla turned to Cyndia Hawkspear, her fellow Farstrider. "Get to the outer Elf gate's outpost," she shouted. "Tell Lady Sylvanas that the dead are here!"

Cyndia nodded in fear ad urgency. "I will," she promised before disappearing into the forests, leaving Jenalla and her men to face the onslaught alone as the Orcs pillaged and burned numerous houses that only fueled their anger at them.

Alone and surrounded, Jenalla took a deep breath and prepared herself. "I will not die easily," she murmured, her bow at the ready. "For Quel'Thalas, I will fight!"

Barov approached her with twisted malice. He raised his runeblade that was glowing in a faint blue hue, and pointed it at her. "Your fate is sealed, elf," he sneered. "You will serve the Lich King, or you will become one with the cold earth."

Jenalla took aim and fired, her arrow striking true. But the Death Knight merely grinned, the shaft of the arrow protruding from his eye before he came closer at her as he removed it from his skull.

Suddenly, a burst of light and the thunderous sound of hooves, a contingent of Alliance knights and soldiers emerged, charging that took the Scourge and the Orcs by surprise. At the forefront was Arthas, swinging his hammer to send a Ghoul flying several feet away from a crying elf child.

"Protect the villagers! Push them back!" Arthas bellowed as he swung his war hammer, cleaving through the enemy lines. Falric and Marwyn charged ahead, joining Arthas and Thassarian in their defense of the elves. Water Elementals summoned by Jaina, charged as well while she formed protective barriers to allow civilians to flee further away from their burning village while surviving Quel'dorei warriors covered them.

For Jenalla, the unexpected reinforcements were a welcome relief when they were so close of being overrun.

For Arthas, if preventing another genocide is a step on making up for his mistakes in his previous lives, then he'll do what it takes.

Chapter Text

It was good to return to Quel'thalas.

It has been almost fifteen years since the Blackrock Clan has stepped foot here under Doomhammer's command, though it was more or less a sideshow because the main objective back then was Lordaeron.

But now, with the mission to bring the Legion to bring Kel'thuzad to the Sunwell, Wrathjaw took this mission with satisfaction for the opportunity to see it burn before his very eyes. The Blackrock Clan's rampage was resolute, along with his undead allies of the Scourge. He would watch as every elf they had slain he revived by the Scourge's necromancers and turn them into effective soldiers.

He watched as his warriors set fire to farmlands, forests and villages alike, taking whatever they could to live off the land and to use their lumber as construction materials for their siege weapons. The elves have always prided themselves as a superior race, and he was eager to put them into their rightful place as he heard the screams of agony and desperation from any elf that they come across.

Elven women and children fled in terror, only to be mercilessly cut down by the warriors of the Blackrock before they were reanimated to serve the Scourge.

The Orcs reveled in the frenzy as they tore through the elven defenses. A young Farstrider tried to fight back with her bow, her arrows flying true, but Wrathjaw simply caught the incoming arrow with ease, breaking it with ease. "You fight well, little elf," he sneered. "But not well enough."

Said Farstrider was impaled by a chained hook, pulled ingloriously by an abomination into the forests as she screamed in terror while the Warchief moved on.

There, he saw one of the Scourge's necromancers standing over a slain elf warrior and was almost finished in reanimating. The elf's eyes snapped and he began to stir. Terror etched the faces of the man's son and wife who were cowering as they watched the unholy resurrection unfold.

"Arise in the name of Ner'zhul," the necromancer bellowed. "Slaughter your kin, and prove your loyalty to the Scourge!"

The reanimated elf took a shaky step forward, raising his weapon to strike down his own family. But Wrathjaw's voice called out, halting the necromancer's grisly command.

"Hold!" the Blackrock Warchief roared. "Their blood is not to be spilled so carelessly! They will serve us better alive!"

The necromancer paused in confusion. "Their souls will strengthen our forces, Warchief."

"Their souls will serve us just as well in chains," Wrathjaw retorted with malice. "A living elf is a symbol of fear and despair. There are plenty more souls to use, but keep some of them alive, either to serve or be sacrificed for our masters in the Legion."

The necromancer reluctantly complied. The elf's hand trembled, the sword lowering down as the reanimated husband moved away. His daughter and wife clung to each other, sobbing in disbelief and horror as the Scourge dragged them away, their future a nightmare of slavery and despair.

The necromancer left to rejoin the fray as Wrathjaw watched. The fear they had sown in the hearts of the elves was as potent as their blood. The Legion will be pleased at their suffering, as would he right after their precious city of Silvermoon is torn to cinders.

On of his warriors approached him respectfully. "Warchief," the orc growled, though his exhaustion was evident through his tone after their recent frenzy. "The Amani trolls seek audience with you."

Wrathjaw's interest piqued. Doomhammer had made such an alliance but did not capitalize their advantage due to him leaving for Lordaeron after he promised them to destroy Silvermoon. He would need of their expertise and knowledge of the land. "Very well," he agreed, glancing at the burning village. "Bring their leader to me."

The warrior obliged and soon after, he returned to find their Chieftain whom Wrathjaw recognized as Zul'jin, the leader of the Amani Trolls. The Fel Orc Warchief saw that the troll have lost both an arm and an eye, likely from torture rather than wounds from battle. Yet he carried those with pride rather than shame or weakness, a trait Wrathjaw found worthy of respect.

"It has been a while, Zul'jin...", Wrathjaw greeted the warlord before him, observing him with a keen eye. "The elves have certainly made their mark on you."

Zul'jin shrugged, stretching his one good arm. "Have certainly seen better days, Jubei.", he replied gruffly. "Is dat the name you're still using as da new Warchief?"

"Call me whatever you wish, troll.", Wrathjaw gruffly replied. "But first things first, why do wish you to speak?"

Zul'jin thought for a moment. "I have seen da work you and your friends have been doing. Like you have every intention of seeing de elves burn and not run away like Doomhammer had."

The Fel Orc grunted in return. "Doomhammer was weak in not pressing the advantage. Now, we have our own mission with the dead press on and head to Silvermoon."

Zul'jin's interest grew. "Planning to head to the heart of those elves? What makes you think you could pass through those blasted barriers of theirs?", he asked tentatively.

Wrathjaw carefully chose his words. "We already have a plan in motion. And if you wish to join us on our march, then do it. If not, stay out of our way and die."

"How do we first know you are not like da coward, Doomhammer? Or like da Horde?", the troll warlord asked.

"We have intentions to march straight ahead and not turn back until we have what we came for, troll.", Wrathjaw dangerously replied. "Make your choice, and I will see to it that you have will have a part of the share once we have completed our mission. And unlike the Horde before, we will fulfill our cause no matter the cost."

And with that, Zul'jin and the Amani trolls fell into line with the Blackrock Clan and the Scourge.

He then approached a group of five elf prisoners, fearful and defiant of their current predicament. They were on their knees, bound tightly with ropes that dug into their wrists, and Wrathjaw looked down at them with contempt, as did Zul'jin beside him. "Where are the rest of your kin?" he demanded.

The elves remained silent and their leader spat at Orc's face. "You will never find them," he declared. "And Silvermoon will never fall to the likes of you."

With a smirk, Wrathjaw brought his broadblade to life, the flaming weapon hissing as it sliced through the air. The elf's eyes widened, but they didn't waver at the display. "You'll tell us," the orc assured them, "or watch your people suffer for eternity."

The elf leader didn't back down. "We'd rather die," he rasped out, while is other comrades only looked at one another in fear.

The Warchief chuckled in response. "With pleasure." he said, raising his blade high.

In a single, brutal arc, the broadblade slashed through the prisoners' necks, their heads rolling grotesquely in the dirt before their bodies fell, before the necromancers moved to reanimate the bodies.

He turned to his warriors and Zul'jin with his raiders. "Burn their lands," he ordered. "Chop down their forests for our siege weapons. let the elves know the cost of their resistance. The Legion will not be denied."

The rampage continued, with Zul'jin and his men joining the Orcs in their slaughter against the elves where his hatred was at his highest point.

Sylvanas felt her very blood boil at the very sight of the atrocities the dead and those Orcs before them. And now, the Amani tribe decided to aid these monsters in burning down their land. She had outmost confidence of her abilities and knows she could drive them back as the commander of the Farstriders and the entire Quel'dorei military as Ranger-General.

Ranger-Lord Nathanos Marris, her close confidant and the only human made Ranger-Lord after she had went through hell and back just to give him his rank that included defying the whole of Quel'thalas, knelt beside her as they watched the atrocities unravel before them, looking grim but not as boiling compared to his superior from what she is seeing.

Sylvanas had always been a principled and prideful woman, but prone to making decisions based on impulse. Nathanos' job was often to make sure she kept her composure as a means to make sure she doesn't make any errors whose consequences are disastrous.

"Those wretches...", Sylvanas seethed out in gritted teeth as she and Nathanos watched from the concealed position away from the burning elf village. It has been almost two decades since the Orcs last came to Quel'thalas. Now they're working with undead monstrosities and the Amani trolls have now joined them in their rampage.

Nathanos placed a hand on Sylvanas's shoulder to calm her fury. "Lady Sylvanas," he began, "We have to be patient with this. I think it's best if we call for reinforcements from Silvermoon

Sylvanas whipped her head towards him. "So we wait while they desecrate our homeland and enslave our kin?", she challenged. "We have to make sure that their visit goes unanswered, Nathanos."

Her loyal subordinate remained had dealt with this attitude so many times that he didn't flinch. "We are not enough," he pointed out. Perhaps we should send a runner, and let them know what was going on."

Sylvanas clicked her tongue in frustration. "There's no time, Nathanos," she hissed. "The longer we wait, the larger their foothold grows by every minute."

He remained calm. "I understand your anger, my lady, but we need to think flearly. If we charge in now, we may fall prey to their numbers. Perhaps we should call in Lor'themar and Halduron to assist us."

For a moment, Sylvanas looked ready to argue, but something in his words resonated within. But then, Velonara, one of her Farstriders, arrived to give a report "My Lady," she panted, "An Alliance...expedition. They've arrived at the borders."

That was an entirely unexpected development. "What?" she exclaimed. "The Alliance is here? How?"

Nathanos looked uneasy. "They wouldn't come to our aid without a price," he warned.

But Velonara shook her head. "They are already helping us," she reported. "They are fighting alongside our people, helping to defend and evacuate the border villagers."

For a moment, Sylvanas was speechless. Quel'thalas had ceased most contact with the Eastern Kingdoms following the end of the previous war. But they had come to their aid without so much as a request. It was a gesture she had never anticipated.

But from what she had heard, Lordaeron itself was attacked by both the undead and Orcs, so she logically thought they wouldn't arrive to assist the Quel'dorei. But for now, they had a more immediate concern: the safety of their people.

Their stronghold in the first elf gate is already under siege. And Sylvanas had been forced into close quarters when the Death Knight, a Lordaeron noble called Baron Rivendare, charged ahead with his runeblade along with groups of undead and Blackrock Orcs leading the charge.

Sylvanas apparently didn't care either way. Her bow was already strapped across her back, and she had a curved blade in each hand, going literal toe-to-toe with the suddenly surprised the Death Knight Rivendare within her outpost.

And then, they have arrived.

The Alliance expedition bearing the insignia of Lordaeron charged ahead, where Lordaeron's Prince Arthas is leading the charge against the invading onslaught with a force that comprised of humans, dwarves and surviving high elves from the border outposts. Riding alongside him were Captain's Falric and Marwyn, Kirin Tor Archmage Jaina, Thassarian and Farstrider Jenalla, who had joined them.

Without a second thought, Jaina quickly activated casted several frost bolts against the advancing undead and Orcs. Falric, Marwyn and Thassarian quickly formed a shield wall along with their men to protect the fleeting civilians who are being covered by Jenalla and the surviving Rangers.

The sudden burst of holy light pierced the area, momentarily blinding Rivendare. Sylvanas, seizing the opportunity, swung one of her blades in a swift arc which cut through the Death Knight's defense and sending him reeling back.

Barov's pale visage twisted in a snarl, teleported to Rivendare's side after he was forced to retreat earlier by the Prince when his forces became outnumbered. "You've had your fun, Titus," he cackled. "But I've not yet had the pleasure of sending this whelp to the grave."

"And I'm taking this from someone who ran away just now, Alexei?", the Baron shot back in annoyance.

Arthas leaped down from his steed where he approached Sylvanas, who was still glaring at the retreating Rivendare.

For a moment, Arthas felt like seeing another ghost of his past. Distinctively remembering on how he was very spiteful of her when all she did was defend her homeland from him. He resisted the urge to look away in shame, after everything he had put her through. Give my regards to hell. You son of a bitch, her final words to him echoed within his mind. This isn't over, Arthas! I'll never stop hunting you!

He shook his head as he stepped closer to her. "We didn't ask for your help," she spat at him.

Arthas only sighed, remembering how headstrong she is in doing things her way. "We know," he replied. "You're still getting it nonetheless."

Sylvanas's eyes narrowed at his rather insulting response, even though that wasn't his intention. "We can handle this," she insisted.

He took a step closer, his own weapons at his side, the war hammer's cold aura radiating a silent warning. "Maybe," he conceded, "unless you'd like to give more corpses for them to use."

For a heartbeat, she looked at him with suspicion. Then, with a resigned sigh she relented. "Fine," she gruffly replied. "But this is our war. Not yours."

The Prince nodded back in response. "I know," he said. "But it would soon be all of ours if we don't do this now."

Rivendare and Barov sneered at the Ranger-General and the Prince, brandishing their runeblades against them. "Shall we leave them to their prattle?", Barov asked his fellow Death Knight.

"No.", Rivendare replied, pointing his runeblade at them which left the two tense as they brandished their weapons. "Let us silence them forever."

Almost by cue, Arthas and Sylvanas dashed against Rivendare and Barov, whose runeblades left trails of dark energy in their wake as they sought to strike down their living adversaries. Sylvanas, with her twin blades flashing like a silver storm, was a blur of motion, her strikes precise and deadly, each one aimed at the heart of the two undead lords. Arthas brought forth the power of the Light, which clashed against the dark magic emanating from the Death Knights' runeblades, sending sparks flying in every direction with speed defying his size.

"You will die as your father will, Your Highness!" Rivendare roared at Arthas, poising for an overhead strike that was parried by his war hammer. Empowering his movements using his cursed power, Arthas quickly sent a shockwave that sent Rivendare tumbling to the ground, before quicky rolling over to dodge an incoming strike from the Prince.

Sylvanas and Arthas moved as if they had fought side by side countless times before, anticipating each other's moves as if they had been so familiar with one another, which made Sylvanas wonder for moment. They were a whirlwind of defense and offense, with the human Prince often defending her from any opening while she took on the offensive against the two Death Knights.

Rivendare and Barov found themselves struggling against them. Their blows, though powerful, lacked the finesse and passion their opponents have. Sylvanas leaped over a swing from Rivendare, her blade slicing through the air as she brought it down on the Death Knight's skull, only to have Arthas's hammer crash into the ground beside her, shattering the spell that Barov had been weaving to trap her in a cage of frost..

Arthas swung his war hammer with the grace of a Paladin against Death Knights' makeshift shields using frost magic. Sylvanas, wove in and out of their reach, her twin blades leaving trails of silver in their wake. Barov countered by freezing the ground beneath their fee. Sylvanas leaped over the icy blast and brought her blades down in a vicious arc which met Barov's blade, leaving her open for Rivendare to gut her to where she is. Arthas reacted in time to block the Baron's strike against her.

Falric and his knights formed a steadfast line, cutting down the advancing undead and Amani. Jaina conjured fiery barriers and ice walls to shield the retreating elves, with her Water Elementals providing support. Thassarian and another Elf warrior tore through the enemy ranks with. Marwyn directed the defense from the rear, ensuring that no enemy slipped past their lines. Jenalla and Nathanos picked off stragglers and providing cover for the mages casting their spells.

Sylvanas watched in amazement as Arthas' war hammer swung in a graceful arc, shattering the dark energy shield that Rivendare had conjured. The two of them had never fought side by side before, yet their movements seemed to be perfectly in tune, as if they had been long-lost battle companions reunited.

How is he doing this?, Sylvanas thought to herself. Despite her initial impression at him, she was now acutely aware of the presence of the human prince at her back, his war hammer crashing into the icy ground to break the path of an incoming spell from Barov. The elf danced around her opponents, her twin blades leaving glinting trails as they clashed against Barov's runeblade, while the human prince's hammer sang a tune of destruction, each strike directed at Rivendare, who resorted to reanimating corpses to support him against the Prince.

The duel was a dance of death, and Arthas and Sylvanas were the most skilled dancers in this macabre ballet. They moved with synchrony that was as mesmerizing as it was deadly. Sylvanas felt the cold steel of her blades slice through the air, their silver light reflecting off the icy ground. Each step she took was matched by Arthas' heavy thud, his war hammer cracking the very earth as he swung it in a graceful arc. The Alliance forces and the Farstriders watched in awe at the sheer power and coordination the two leaders displayed.

Nathanos noticed the subtle nods and gestures that passed between Arthas and Sylvanas, the silent communication that allowed them to anticipate each other's next move. The animosity his superior had shown to the Prince earlier was replaced by adrenaline to fight with him.

Jaina, who kept glancing between the raging battle and the retreating civilians, couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in Arthas. He had proven time and again that he would not repeat the same tragedies the befall them. That included Sylvanas as well.

For Sylvanas, it was particularly strange. It was as if he knew her better than she knew herself, knew her fears and her weaknesses, and yet he never used them against her.

Needing to end this immediately, Arthas and Sylvanas shared a nod where they charged at Rivendare and Barov once more. The two unleashed two powerful arcs from their runeblades, prompting Sylvanas to leap over the horizontal arc and Arthas sliding down with one knee with the vertical one. Neither Death Knight had anticipated the switch as Arthas charged at Barov while Sylvanas went against Rivendare.

Rivendare lunged in for a slash against Sylvanas, who whirled gracefully out of the way as she reversed the grip of her left blade, finding its mark on the right side of his knee before she brought her right blade in a vicious arc across his back, penetrating through his armor and he collapsed face first.

Barov sought to strike down Arthas with his own runeblade, but the Prince swung Light's Vengeance upwards, knocking Barov's grip from his weapon. Using this chance, Arthas struck Barov on his torso, heaving him upwards and smashing him onto the ground. To finish this, Arthas then struck him again to send him flying against the unconscious and wounded Rivendare, sending the two colliding against a ruined house just as Sylvanas leapt away from the Baron.

Barely alive and could barely regain his bearings, Barov teleported him and Rivendare away from the battlefield, their forces retreating in a disorganized fashion. Sylvanas was not done yet, as her blade are s still poised to follow them into whatever foul abyss they had escaped to.

"After them!" she exclaimed for everyone to hear in the outpost. "We can't let them regroup in their current state!"

Arthas, panting heavily, placed a on her shoulder to dissuade her from doing anything reckless. "Don't," he urged. "We'll go back to them, but not right now."

"We can't allow them to regroup, Prince!," she argued, gesturing to the outpost and the forests around them. "Look at what they've done already!"

Jaina stepped forward to calm her down, also seeing herself as how Sylvanas is determined as she is headstrong when it came to defending her homeland from what Arthas told her. "Lady Sylvanas, we first have to focus on the evacuation of civilians away from the battlefield as much as possible. Their safety would deny the undead any more potential recruits for their armies."

Sylvanas hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to give chase. But she knew the two made sense. The survivors of the elf gates and the surrounding settlements had to be evacuated before the Scourge could reorganize and launch another incoming offensive.

"Very well," she conceded. "We will tend to our people. But make no mistake," she spat. "I won't let them get away with with this."

Arthas nodded solemnly. "Nor will I," he assured her. "But first, we save those we can."

They looked around the outpost, finding it in ruins as several buildings have been destroyed. Falric, Jenalla and Nathanos gathered the wounded around them, while Thassarian and Koltira made sure the evacuation of civilians was orderly. "We can't stay here.", Arthas observed with a frown, knowing this scenario a bit too well for him. "We have to fall back to the second Elf Gate and reorganize a more thorough defense."

This didn't sit well with Sylvanas. "We can't let them push us back further, Prince.", the elf insisted. "The first elf gates are lost, yes, but if we retreat to the second, we concede our lands to the dead."

Arthas sighed. "You're right, we can't let them take any more," he agreed. "However, lands can always be taken back. But not lives. We can't fight them head-on, not without risking more casualties."

"So what, we just abandon our people?" she challenged, almost as if she's close to snapping. "You expect us to leave them to be slaughtered or worse, turned into mindless abominations?"

"No," the Prince firmly replied, "but we need to be thorough about this. We need to evacuate the civilians and prepare a strong defense at the second gate. The Scourge feeds on death, Sylvanas. Every soldier we lose is another one they can reanimate and use against us."

Sylvanas stared at him, finding logic behind his words. "And what of the Alliance?" she asked. "What is their true motive here? To save us, or to use us as bait in their own purposes?"

Arthas took a deep breath. "The Alliance is here to help," he assured her. "But you have to understand, we can't win this battle if we throw our lives away in a futile stand."

A few tense moments happened after that, and Sylvanas knew he was right; she had seen their necromancers turning their dead into monstrosities. But the thought of retreating, of giving up any more of their sacred ground, was just too much.

Sylvanas studied him for a long moment. But finally, she nodded, though it was clear the decision was one she made begrudgingly. "Very well," she conceded. "We will fall back to the second elf gate."

"That's all we ask," Arthas said. "We'll need all the time and resources we can get if we're to hold them off."

Their eyes held for a moment longer, a silent acknowledgment of the weight that rested upon their shoulders. Then, without another word, they turned to their respective forces to lead them to the outpost where Arthas and Jaina tailed Sylvanas. Falric, Velonara and Nathanos immediately began the evacuation process.

"If you don't mind me asking...", Sylvanas broke the silence between them as the Alliance expedition and the Farstriders began to make their way to the outpost at the inner Elf Gate where the Ban'dinoriel was powered where it temporarily deactivated to let them go inside. "Why is the Alliance here, and shouldn't you have your own issues to deal with back home?"

Arthas rode behind Sylvanas along with Jaina, Falric, Marwyn and their men with Jenalla and the Farstriders at the rear. "We do have. Though unfortunately, we have to act as to warn you and King Anasterian about the impending danger the Scourge poses, especially since the Blackrock Orcs and the Amani trolls joined up."

"Hmm," Sylvanas hummed. "I find it quite peculiar that the Alliance would extend its hand to Quel'thalas, especially after our...strained relations during the previous war. What is it you hope to gain from it, Prince?"

Arthas carefully chose his words. "The Scourge, Sylvanas," he answered. "They are a threat unlike any we have ever faced. They do not discriminate between elf or human, Alliance or Horde or just about anyone. They would kill everything in their path." He paused to find the second elf gate looming before them. "When they attacked Lordaeron, our capital was left in ruins. And my own father, King Terenas, is barely clinging to life."

The elf's eyes narrowed. "And you believe that by helping us, you protect your own kingdom?"

"It's not about what I believe," Arthas countered. "It's about what I know. If the Scourge overruns Quel'Thalas, then everyone else in the Eastern Kingdoms would have to deal with an even larger undead horde strengthened by elf corpses."

"So you do this for your own people," she mused. "What makes you think we would not turn on you if we had the upper hand?"

Jaina, riding on Arthas's other side, spoke up gently. "Because we all share a common enemy. And you can trust us at that."

"Do not presume to tell me what is best for the elves of Quel'Thalas, human," Sylvanas sharply said. "We have survived countless wars and hardships. We are more than capable of defending ourselves."

"I never said you weren't," Arthas pointed out. "But we have a better chance if we stick together. The Scourge is not an enemy to be underestimated. Trust me, I've seen firsthand what they can do."

It was silent after that. Sylvanas saw it as one of necessity, not trust. But as they approached the second elf gate, she elected to place her faith onto them, for now.

Upon reaching the Inner Elfgate stronghold, the Alliance expedition was met countless faces, ranging from suspicion to outright hostility. The elves who didn't think that way were Jenalla and the Farstriders who had fought alongside them. Sylvanas and Arthas dismounted their horses before stepped into the command tent.

The elven leaders of the outpost looked at the humans with wariness, their postures are rigid and their hands resting onyo their weapons. Sylvanas stepped forward. "We can't waste any more time," she snapped. "The Scourge will be back soon, and we need to organize a stable front, as well as to evacuate all civilians away from the field"

Arthas nodded. "Lady Sylvanas is right," he agreed with the same urgency. "But we have to be very careful in this. A hasty defense will only lead to more casualties."

The elves looked between the two leaders, looking skeptical and curious. It was clear that Sylvanas's brashness and Arthas's stoic resolve were a stark contrast to the usual elven tact.

Marwyn decided to step in. "Perhaps, Lady Sylvanas, we could hear Prince Arthas's thoughts on the matter?" he suggested, trying to ease the tension.

Sylvanas sighed but gestured for him to speak. "Fine," she said, her arms crossing over her chest. "Let's see if you humans have any brains between your skulls."

Falric and Marwyn looked at one another with the same thought: does she really have to be this prideful towards them?

Arthas looked over at the map before them, with the inner elf gate already marked by red ink to indicate it is lost. "Any advance will come through one of the narrow paths leading into the valley."

Sylvanas rolled her eyes. "I know this.", she replied as if it's the most obvious thing in Azeroth. "Our men defend these forests. The elfgate to the inner kingdom is protected by our most powerful enchantments. They won't pass."

Jaina wasn't convinced. "That likely won't be enough, Lady Sylvanas.", she spoke out in concern. "We're talking about not just the Scourge, but also the Blackrock Orcs and the Amani Trolls here. They'll come at you with brute force, which means strength in numbers and very likely have heavy weapons that could pierce through Quel'dorei formations."

"Not to mention, offensive operations against them won't be any good if whatever casualties sustained by your side will only swell their numbers. Not to mention they are quite literally hard to kill.", Arthas added, then looked at Sylvanas. "Are your men ready for that?"

Falric couldn't help but smirk at th his Prince's bluntness, while Jaina shot him a warning glance. "Very well then, Prince.", Sylvanas took their suggestions to heart for now. "If you have a brilliant plan with you, then let's hear it "

Arthas cupped his chin before he leaned forward. "Hear me out on this...when they approach. We run...away."

Silence fell right after that.

Sylvanas stared at Arthas in utter disbelief. "You want us to run?" she scoffed. "That is no strategy, that is cowardice!"

He remained steadfast with a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Not at all, Sylvanas," he corrected her calmly. "It's strategy. Think about it. The Scourge expects us to defend the gate with everything we have, so we give them what they expect."

Velonara spoke up from the back. "You're suggesting a feigned retreat, Prince Arthas?"

Marwyn thoughtfully nodded. "It's a classic tactic. Draw them out, then strike from behind."

Falric added his support. "It's risky, but it could work if executed correctly."

Arthas continued to explain his plan. "It's quite intricate. We first make it seem we are launching a full-scale offensive. After a barrage or two, we retreat back to lure undead detachments who separated from their main army. Then, two separate divisions led by Nathanos and the others would swoop in, encircle them and destroy them."

Sylvanas' eyes narrowed, and she turned to her Farstriders. Nathanos looked at her, appearing convinced. "If it saves the lives of our people, I say we consider it."

Velonara, standing at attention, chimed in. "It's a daring move, but it could catch them off guard."

The Ranger-General's jaw clenched, seeing how her own men supported his idea. "Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "But I want it on record that I find this plan...less than ideal."

Arthas's smirk grew slightly. "Duly noted," he said. "Sometimes, the less ideal path is the one that leads to victory."

The room was tense. Sylvanas finally nodded, though she kept staring at Arthas with skepticism. "We'll prepare for that plan of yours," she conceded. "But if this fails, I will hold you personally responsible, human. So you better keep up."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Arthas replied with confidence in his voice.

The group dispersed and as they left the tent, Jaina leaned in to whisper to Arthas. "You do know you're playing with fire, don't you?"

Arthas glanced back at her, with a spark of humor on his face. "It's what I do best, Jaina."

The Archmage couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm just saying, you might want to be careful. You're starting to make friends with them."

"Wouldn't want it any other way, Jaina.", Arthas mused.

The next day...

The plan unfolded like a well-crafted trap. Arthas and Sylvanas stood side by side where they looked upon the Lich Ordin Frostbane who was in standby along with his forces. With a hand signal from Sylvanas to Velonara with a spyglass, the archers of the Farstriders and the dwarven mortars sent a rain of death into the oncoming undead, the explosive thunder of the mortars echoing through the morning as the first wave of the Scourge fell.

"Fall back!" Sylvanas barked the order and Arthas followed and together they led the elven and human forces back through the gateway, the heavy wooden doors slamming shut behind them.

On the heels of the retreating allies, howled in rage in this impudence. "After them!" he bellowed to his minions. "They will not escape the might of the Scourge!"

The undead swarmed forward while Arthas and Sylvanas watched as Ordin's forces split from the main army, falling for their ploy. The Alliance forces had bought themselves some time.

As the undead approached the elf gate, two more figures emerged—Jaina and Nathanos along with their men. Quickly, Jaina conjured a blizzard, freezing the ground beneath the undead's feet. On the other flank, Nathanos and his team of rangers unleashed a storm of arrows, each one finding its mark with unerring precision.

The encirclement was complete. The elven archers and human footmen picked off the staggered Scourge, their combined forces cutting through the enemy with ease. Sylvanas searched the chaos for Ordin, preparing her shot against him.

Finally, she found her target. With a snarl, she took aim at the lich. But before she could loose her shot, Arthas's war hammer swung down, shattering Ordin's body and sending him crashing to the ground.

"Hey! He was mine!" she shouted at the Prince with anger and dismay.

"You told me to keep up," Arthas quipped, his voice as cold as the wind that whipped around them. "So I did."

Sylvanas stared at him, a mix of anger and begrudging respect flashing across her face. Then, with a swift motion, she unsheathed one of her curved blades and plunged it into Ordin's chest, silencing his guttural growls.

After the last shambling corpse of Ordin's army fell to the ground, Jenalla and Velonara couldn't contain their astonishment. "It worked!" they exclaimed in unison, as the Quel'dorei and the Alliance forces celebrate their triumph.

"It seems so," Sylvanas murmured, looking at Arthas as he conferred with Jaina and his human officers. They were proud of their victory of course, and she couldn't help but feel annoyed that the Prince's strategy had paid off.

Nathanos approached her with amusement. "I trust you are not too displeased with our new ally, my lady," he remarked while watching her carefully.

"Peeved?" Sylvanas scoffed. "I'm not peeved, I'm... I'm..." She trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Satisfied?" he offered.

"No," she replied. "I'm suspicious. He's looking at me like he's already won."

Nathanos chuckled. "I assure you, my lady, Prince Arthas is not looking down on you. He is merely...celebrating our victory."

"Celebrating," she spat the word out. "With that smug look on his face? He thinks he's better than us."

"Us or you? Perhaps it is relief you see in his eyes, Sylvanas," he said, his tone light. "After all, he is doing for both our homeland and his. Both are coincidentally mine since I was born from Lordaeron."

Sylvanas glared at him, but couldn't hold back a small, begrudging smile. "Fine," she conceded. "But just this once, Nathanos. And only because he's right. For now."

Nathanos chuckled again. "I'll be sure to remind him of your graciousness," he assured her with mischief.

Then, as if on cue, Arthas turned to them with a smile. "Thank you, Sylvanas, for your trust."

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. "Thank you, Prince," she sarcastically replied. "But don't think this makes us friends."

"Friends?" Arthas replied with a chuckle.. "I'd settle for not being enemies."

Jaina stepped between them. "Allies," she corrected. "We are all allies now, fighting for the same cause."

She was relieved to say those words. After seeing what Arthas did to Sylvanas in his previous life.

Twice they repeated that. Twice they succeeded, defeating quite a portion of the undead Scourge, even when the Blackrock Orcs and the Amani trolls have sent in reinforcements. All the while evacuating much of the population to Silvermoon by any means necessary.

Everyone was having their rations outside the camp. Velonara approached Sylvanas who was looking at Arthas as he conferred with Jaina and the human commanders. "I must admit, Lady Sylvanas , the prince has proven himself to be quite the leader," she mused with admiration.

Sylvanas' eyes narrowed at that. "Don't tell me you're falling for his charm," she lowly and dangerously said. "We need him, yes, but we can't afford to trust him too much."

"Charm?" Velonara chuckled. "No, I speak of his mind when of his own strategic thinking. He's managed to outwit the Scourge not once, but twice, not even including his own victories back at his own homeland. That's not something to scoff at."

Sylvanas scoffed nonetheless. "I am not 'envious' of a human," she said. "But I will admit that he's been surprisingly... capable."

Velonara nodded. "He's proven to be an asset," she agreed. "And considering he had no obligation to help us, I'd say it makes him so much different from the other human leaders who would probably leave us hanging after Quel'thalas seceded from the Alliance nearly fifteen years ago."

Sylvanas sighed. "I don't care about his motivations," she said. "All I care about is that he doesn't get in the way of protecting our people."

Velonara's smile was gentle. "But he hasn't, Sylvanas," she pointed out. "If anything, he's helped us more than I thought possible. And for that, I am grateful."

Despite her reservations, Sylvanas couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for the Prince who had come to their aid, though she would ask herself as to why is he so bent on helping them in the first place other than the reasons he gave out. "Perhaps," she murmured. "But don't forget, Velonara, we still have a long way to go before this war is won.",

"Yes" Velonara agreed with her. "We'll be on our guard. But let's focus on what we do have—an ally who knows how to fight."

Sylvanas grunted in assent. "For now," she said in finality. In her heart, she remained doubtful, but she knew that for the time being, they needed all the help they could get.

While Sylvanas was moody, Arthas took a seat at the terrace, the memories of his past rampage and of his choice to make her suffer out of pure and hateful spite came running down his mind again. He could still remember the sadistic glee he once had when he revived her as a Banshee to make her slaughter her people and parade her in Silvermoon when it finally fell before him.

And just how it made him feel guilt whenever he sees her after seeing how resilient she is when it came to protect her homeland. Just as he does when protecting Lordaeron.

Jaina found Arthas on the terrace, figuring he was lost in his own thoughts given this is also one of the most significant periods of his life. She approached him, her hand on his shoulder, and asked, "What's troubling you, Arthas?"

He sighed heabuly. "It's nothing," he replied, trying to put on a brave face.

Jaina knew him too well to see his own turmoil from within. "It's about Sylvanas, isn't it?" she pressed gently.

Arthas looked at her with sadness. 'It is quite difficult to look at her straight to the eye without remembering the day I turned her into a Banshee" he professed. "The pain I've caused her...I wouldn't want that to happen to her ."

Jaina took a seat beside him, understanding what he felt. "I know that you don't, Arthas.", she assured him. "You've already did the same for Uther, Muradin, your father and among countless others, so you don't have to be worried too much if you knew that you're doing it to prevent a repeat of the fate that fell to them."

"I am, Jaina...", he sighed. "I only wish that she does not have to go through all that pain after I once robbed her of everything she had loved."

Jaina offered a comforting smile. "Arthas, you've already changed so much and became a leader that people could look up to. And I believe that Sylvanas sees it too, even if she doesn't show it." She paused,. "Remember, she's a proud elf. It's not in her nature to show vulnerability, especially not to a human that is."

He nodded. "I know. But I can't help but feel that she despises me, and with good reason, even though it hasn't happened. I've taken so much from her."

"Maybe so," Jaina conceded. "But she's not the Banshee Queen from before. She also sees what you're doing now. The risks you're taking, the lives you're saving. That has to mean something to her."

Arthas was silent for a moment. "Do you really think so?"

"I do," Jaina said firmly. "You've proven yourself to be a true ally in this fight. And whether she admits it or not, I think she knows it too."

He looked at her with gratitude. "Thanks, Jaina," Arthas murmured. "I just hope that...she could forgive me. Even though she never knew of the fate I cursed upon her from before."

The Archmage squeezed his shoulder. "Give her time, Arthas," she urged him. "Time, and maybe a few more battles won together."

The Prince looked over at the night sky. Maybe there's a chance after all...

Chapter Text

Meanwhile back at the Capital City...

"Just remember, Princess Calia...", Lord Goodwin tugged her by the elbow. "Just relax and breathe. We'll be able to get through this."

Calia looked at the elderly statesman and appreciated his support. Being appointed as Regent of Lordaeron by her brother who is currently at Quel'thalas was still a shock that remained with her to this day. She has some idea of administrative duties from the spare time reading books about it, but she never had any formal training. And definitely no experience in military as well.

But she was determined to try her best. And she was glad that Lord Goodwin had been appointed by Arthas to be her chancellor and advisor and his help have stabilized the domestic affairs within the unoccupied territories of the kingdom.

For Lord Goodwin, it was his way of penance to the Prince after the fiasco at Stratholme. And he was determined to help his kingdom by becoming the guide Calia would need in these trying times.

"Thank you, Lord Jeremiah.", Calia sighed again as she entered the meeting hall where military and civilian officials throughout the kingdom had gathered to receive new status reports. "I just...never did things like this before..."

The next round of meetings went underway. Muradin had returned to Ironforge to seek more support from King Magni. From the recent reports she had read, Lord Admiral Daelin had sent in Tirassian ships to bolster Lordaeron's coastline from any possible attacks from sea as well as helping improve the country's navy.

There is still no response from Stromgarde and Gilneas as the two had already seceded from the Alliance at this point.

"Your Highness, we have received reports that Kel'thuzad's cultists have hid in Hillsbrand foothills and we await the order to conduct a pursuit.", Lord Raymond George informed her as he sat in the long table along with other officials.

Lord Goodwin knew he had to help Calia somehow, whispering his suggestions to her. "We can't divert our full attention to them yet as we need to safeguard out unaffected farmlands from the plague we're spreading.", she recounted after her Chancellor was done. "Have the army send in a detachment to ensure the safeguarding of the fields and a few Kirin Tor mages just to be safe.", she ordered as the officials wrote down her orders.

Viscount Henry Rathbone cleared his throat. "We would need to ensure that the line of succession is secured should the Crown Prince fall in Quel'thalas and King Terenas unable to complete his duties.", he suggested.

"Meaning...?", Calia tensely asked.

"An heir that would succeed in the throne of Lordaeron to prevent a succession crisis, my lady.", Baron Malcolm Blackwood answered for her. "Should the worse come to pass, you may have to consider getting a suitor of your own to prevent such a thing, don't you think?"

The audacity of these nobles. Just because Arthas and her father are not around, and they would find a way to make her...that! But she couldn't express her dismay fully nor she could tell them of her own private marriage that could potentially endanger her family in the political intrigues around them.

Gavinrad decided to change the subject when he saw that Calia was getting uncomfortable at those suggestions. "The threat of the Blackrock Orcs have been going rampant, and they began to raid villages to kidnap people and according to rumors, have been subjected to human sacrifices to appease whatever demons they worship.", he reported. "Our forces have been stretched thin and we could not afford to divert significant forces all at once.

Calia wiped the sweat from her forehead, feeling like she was going to pass out from the constant barrage of issues that they expect her to carry out. Lord Goodwin also felt a bit overwhelmed, as he didn't have the necessary skills in military matters to help Calia, especially as complex as the Scourge or the Orcs.

The door opened to find a newcomer that left everyone stunned. Wearing the polished armor of high ranking official of the army of Lordaeron. His looked haggard, but his commitment to duty was always noticeable. Gavinrad and Saidan looked surprised and inwardly relieved to see him again after all these years, especially as they knew him to be embodiment of their ideals as Paladins.

"Lord Fordring...", Alexandros greeted the man, seeing his son Darion escorting Tirion with a sense of duty. They had known of his exile after he helped the Orc Eitrigg, and they never expected him to come back. "You have returned."

Tirion gave Alexandros a curt nod, looking at Gavinrad and Saidan as he began to make his way close to Calia, who was fidgeting to their seat. Viscount Rathbone raised an eyebrow of the supposedly exiled Paladin, as did the other nobles around them. "Mind if we know what made your return so sudden?", he asked.

Tirion remained calm, unwavering in the stares they were giving him. "The Prince himself has requested that I am to return to the Crown's service in defense against the undead.", he told them, straightening himself. "After the recent attack at the capital city, our homeland needed all the assistance it could get."

Many of them were taken back, raising an eyebrow at his claims. "The Prince himself?", Saidan asked in curiosity.

Tirion nodded at his comrade's question. "Following the capture of Lord Uther and the Prince's departure to Quel'thalas, I have been appointed by His Highness to lead the home guard in his stead, and to ensure the safety of our people in these trying times.", he informed them, which shocked many of the attendees.

"Do we have proof of your claim, Lord Fordring?", Viscount Rathbone questioned in suspicion. "Or are you plotting retribution against the Kingdom who casted you away for protecting an Orc?"

The returned ex-Paladin took a parchment from his tunic and tossed it at them where they read to find Arthas' own seal and handwriting providing proof of the appointment, which essentially made military personnel throughout Lordaeron to answer to him in such matters.

Gavinrad and Saidan nodded at their comrade with their approval, eager to hear out his thoughts against this new enemy. Calia and Lord Goodwin looked at Tirion with both relief and hope, sure that the Kingdom is in safe hands.

The next morning at Quel'thalas...

"Wow, so you went to Northrend, rescued the King of Ironforge's brother AND fought a powerful demon?", Jenalla asked in awe as she and a few Farstriders sat with Arthas and a few of his companions at the stronghold. Said demon in question was Mal'Ganis, though Arthas didn't drop his name.

"Apparently, yes.", the Prince confirmed, momentarily looking at his cursed, covered right arm where he clenched his hand. "It was a delicate rescue, and we have to deal with large groups of undead that threatened to encircle us."

Falric leaned in to share a part of their adventure at Northrend. "Aye, but would you believe us if we have manage to face off against a huge, undead, frost dragon?", he asked with a hint of excitement.

Farstrider Anya was interested to listen. "No way, you did?", she asked in curiosity and excitement.

"It did happen.", Jaina confirmed as she drank her cup of milk beside Arthas. "Taking it down was a handful of we're going to talk about the amount of Frost breaths we have to dodge that day."

"Not to mention, the amount of gunpowder we have to use to put dents on its wings and how both Lady Jaina and Prince Arthas took it down in a marvelous display!", Marwyn further added that made the elves stare at them in awe while Jaina and Arthas bashfully chuckled, as the two knew that they weren't embellishing it either.

As they chatted with one another, Sylvanas and Narhanos looked over to the group and Sylvanas' disinterest and glare, directed at Arthas, was pretty visible. She leaned against a wooden beam of the makeshift command tent, arms crossed tightly across her chest as she watched Arthas regale the Farstriders with tales of his adventures. "You know," she said to the ever-attentive Nathanos, "his stories seem to be getting more and more fantastical every time he tells them."

Nathanos smiled at his partner's haughty attitude, sipping from his mug of tea. "Perhaps they are, my lady," he quipped, "but they do seem to have a way of capturing the audience."

Her eyes narrowed. "He's hiding something," she said, almost to herself. "I know that look."

Nathanos only laughed at her suspicions bordering into paranoia. "And what look would that be?"

"The look of someone who thinks they're outsmarting everyone else," Sylvanas replied with irritation directed at the Prince.

The Ranger-Lord stepped closer to her with a playful look. "Or perhaps he's just sharing his experiences and building camaraderie, Sylvanas," he suggested. "You know, like we do after a successful hunt?"

"Camaraderie?" she scoffed. "With humans?"

"With allies," he corrected for her, knowing that at least that isn't directed at him. "Remember, we need all the help we can get if we are to drive the Scourge out of our lands."

"I'm not jealous, Nathanos," she snapped, her eyes still on Arthas.

"No, no, of course not," he sarcastically replied with a chuckle. "It's just that your plans are always so... predictable, my dear. It's refreshing to see someone shake things up a bit."

Sylvanas shot him a glare, but couldn't help the tug at the corner of her mouth. "Fine," she conceded. "But I'm watching him. And if he so much as twitches in the wrong direction, I'll be the first to know."

Nathanos laughed. "I wouldn't expect anything less," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "But for now, let us enjoy our victory. And if our friend from the south over there is indeed plotting something, I suspect we'll be the first to know as well."

Sylvanas couldn't help but smirk at his hanter, despite her reservations about Arthas. "I suppose you're right," she said, her voice slightly lighter. "But I'm still watching."

And so, the two stood, sipping their drinks and watching the camp from afar. "So, Lady Sylvanas...have you spoke with your sister Vereesa back at Dalaran?", the Ranger-Lord suddenly asked.

The Ranger-General's smile fell as she sighed. She hasn't spoken to her younger sister ever since that day with Lirath.

She considers him to be the 'sun' of her life and adamantly refused to train him to keep him safe at Silvermoon to the point that she made Vereesa swear that she won't.

But while her back was turned, Vereesa still decided to train Lirath and he tragically died when the Orcs attacked their home, a loss that Sylvanas still bore to this day. A rift grew between the two sisters as she blamed Vereesa for Lirath's death and the two never had contact with one another for the past fifteen years.

Nathanos knew this too as he had seen the last time Sylvanas was at her most vulnerable and did his best to help her, but hopes that a resolution between the two could still be found.

"Vereesa?" Sylvanas' tone was cold as ice. "Never did, and probably never will." She took a deep breath, and rubbed her face with her palm. "If she's sent another one of her letters, you know the drill."

Nathanos nodded. "I understand," he said, remembering the painful history between the two sisters. "But I've kept them safe, just in case you change your mind."

Sylvanas looked at him with an uncertain look. "Thank you," she replied in a stiff tone. "But I likely won't."

The Ranger-Lord didn't push the matter further. He knew that Sylvanas was still deeply hurt by the events of the past. "As you wish," he said with a nod. "But, she is still your sister."

Sylvanas took a long sip of her tea. "For now," she murmured, " but we have more pressing issues to deal with."

In the command tent, maps sprawled out on the table, Sylvanas leaned over them, her finger tracing the line of the Thalassian Pass. "We need to take the fight to them," she suggested with urgency. "We can't just sit here and wait for them to come to us."

Arthas studied the map with a raised eyebrkw. "You're right," he conceded. "But a full-scale offensive would be costly. They've had time to fortify themselves."

"Agreed," Sylvanas replied, looking for any possible options. "But we can't allow them to build their numbers either. If we strike at their necromancers, we can at least slow their progress in converting any corpses into one of their soldiers."

Falric spoke up. "We could coordinate with the Farstriders and Rangers to hit smaller camps, thinning their forces before they can consolidate."

Sylvanas leaned forward at the suggestion of the human captain. "If so, this is what we're going to do... I'm going to take a group of Farstriders attacking from the right flank.", she pointed her finger at an enemy detachment. "I'll be taking a few warriors and a squad of Rangers. Nathanos and Velonara will provide support from the rear"

"I'll take the left.", Arthas proposed. "I'll be bringing along with a few rangers, Knights and riflemen. We're just going to hope that the damage is maximized enough to force the Necromancers into the fray to try and replenish their ranks where they would he labeled as priority targets."

Arthas then looked over at Jaina. "I'm gonna need you and Captain Falric at the middle. Thassarian and Koltira will help you out there along with a few mortars teams. Okay?"

Jaina readily nodded. "Alright," she said, placing her hand on the table. "I'll coordinate with the mages to prepare a series of teleportation spells. We can use them to infiltrate and escape quickly once we've struck the necromancers."

"Good," Arthas said with a firm nod. "We need to quick but precise in this. Any injuries we sustain will carry over, so we need to minimize our casualties. But so would theirs, except their losses would take more time to replenish."

Sylvanas stared at Arthas for a moment, still wondering how his plans seemed to work every time. "Then it's settled then.", she spoke with finality. "We go through the plan but we'll need to hit them back with what we got. If need be, we'll call in reinforcements from Silvermoon should things didn't go as planned."

Those present in the meeting agreed with the plan with enthusiasm, something that didn't initially happened when Arthas first came up with his plan, as if they're confident that with he and the Alliance having their backs, Quel'thalas had a better chance driving them out of their homeland.

A couple hours later...

To that end, the battle was chaotic, as the Alliance and Quel'dorei descended upon the Scourge camp within the Thalassian Pass. Arthas and his forces approached the left flank with precision, charging against a vanguard of ghouls, abominations and a few Gargoyles above them.

"Stay sharp, men!" Arthas yelled as they approached the first wave of Scourge, wielding Light's Vengeance to score . "Take out the gargoyles first!" he ordered, pointing at the winged creatures that were swooping down from the skies. Dwarf riflemen and elven Rangers took aim and shoot them down by their wings.

His men followed his lead, fighting through the onslaught and cutting a path through the enemy ranks. Meanwhile, Jaina and her mages held the center, their spells lighting up the night with bursts of fire and ice.

Sylvanas, on the right flank led her Farstriders into combat. She moved with a grace that belied the anger within her, her arrows never missing their marks. "For Quel'Thalas!" she shouted, her arrows finding the hearts of the Nerubian spiders that scuttled towards them.

The creatures fell with a wet thud. The two separate groups from the left and right have broken through the Scourge defenses on the main front where the two groups rendezvoused after Alliance and the Quel'dorei enricled and wiped out the detachment. Sylvanas and Arthas stared at one another, giving each other a nod as they saw the plan working as expected.

The necromancers finally came into the fray as they began to reanimate the corpses. The Prince's eyes narrowed as he spotted them in the fray, as they are the main objective. "Now's our chance!" he shouted.

Marwyn saw the signal through his spyglass and he glanced at Farstrider Jenalla beside him. "Now's our chance! Fire on my mark!", he instructed them. Moments later, dwarf mortar teams and elven glaive throwers fired a salvo of their payload at the designated targets.

Jaina's eyes glowed with power as she began to cast the teleportation spell. "On my mark," she called out to the others. The ground trembled as the enemy forces grew closer, but the group remained focused, trusting in the ability of their comrades.

Moments later, the rounds of the mortar teams and glaive throwers met the necromancers, decimating the Scourge forces as the main army struggled to intercept and reinforce their beleaguered line.

"Fall back!" Sylvanas bellowed. "We've done enough!"

Jaina completed the spell, and with a flash of light, the group vanished from the battlefield, reappearing in the relative safety of the outpost. The sound of the battle grew distant, replaced by the gasps of the exhausted soldiers as they realized they had survived.

Sylvanas, panting slightly, turned to Arthas with a grudging respect. "Well done," she said. "That'll slow them down before we can move in and finish the rest"

Arthas offered a grim smile. "Agreed.", he replied. "We'll just have to maintain the momentum."

After they have rested, Arthas looked up to the Ban'dinoriel. He was pleased that it's still activated, which would prevent the Scourge, Blackrock Orcs and Amani trolls from breaking through their defenses and allow the steady flow of evacuating the civilians away from the battlefield.

He could still remember Dar'khan in his previous life, the one who sold out the High Elves to the Scourge by murdering the Magisters who operated the barrier and stealing the Key of the Three Moons for Arthas, which enabled the conquest of Quel'thalas for the Scourge and the tainting of the Sunwell.

He had sent a letter back to Sylvanas when he and Jaina were at Andorhal investigating the plague via the Kirin Tor. So in this case, he hoped that Sylvanas had received his letter from Vereesa regarding the traitorous Magister that would surely prevent the conquest of Quel'thalas. And he was confident that Dar'khan is behind bars, or perhaps executed for good measure.

He turned to Sylvanas with said question. "Sylvanas, have you received the letter I sent months ago? It was about Dar'khan Drathir.", he asked of her, confident that an affirmative would be the reply.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, trying to remember anything of him sending any letters from Arthas. "I don't remember receiving any letter from you, Prince," she replied in confusion. "And why did it involve Magister Drathir?"

The Prince's heart stopped at the response.

...What?

Oh, no...don't tell me...,"But I sent it," he insisted, but it was clear that the nervousness in his tone was becoming unsettling. "I hoped that you have investigated him under the grounds of him and his rather unsettling ambition."

The Ranger-General studied Arthas for a moment before speaking. "That is quite the accusation, Prince," she steadily pointed out. "If Dar'khan is what you think he is, then you will need proof, and we can't act against a member of Silvermoon's Convocation on mere suspicion."

Frankly, Sylvanas never trusted Dar'khan when she first met him during Lirath's performances back at Silvermoon. But Lor'themar, a close friend of hers, trusted him enough to dissuade her from seeing anything suspicious of the Magister. Not to mention, Dar'khan had fought with High Priestess Liadrin and Lor'themar during the war against the Orcs, and Grand Magister Salonar trusted him too. Sure he may have an ego and ambition that is the size of Azeroth itself, but being traitor never crossed her mind.

For Arthas, if Sylvanas didn't receive the letter, then Dar'khan remains free. And he is freed then...

"Please," Arthas urged, now sounding desperate. "We need to go to Silvermoon, now. Maybe the letter was misplaced. We have to find it and present it to King Anasterian before it's too late."

Sylvanas was taken back at his change of demeanor, but her instincts urged her to trust in his judgement. Inwardly, she was becoming unsettled in his behaviour.

"Alright," she complied. "We'll go to Silvermoon and search for this letter and of your claims about Dar'khan. But if your claims are unfounded, you will answer for the accusations."

Arthas frantically nodded. He knew he couldn't find Dar'khan now or he would have to answer to Quel'thalas on acting without any sufficient proof. Not to mention, time. Because he doesn't know where he is or he had made contact with the likes of Tichondrius or Kel'thuzad.

His hopes weighed on Dar'khan being in Silvermoon right now, where once they knew where he is, then they will intercept him and bring him before King Anasterian before he could murder any of the Magisters. "Captain Marwyn and Lieutenant Thassarian will be left behind with the men to hold their line with Jenalla and Velonara. We have to hurry, now."

Sylvanas was growing frustrated at his frantic behavior all of a sudden. "Lor'themar trusts Dar'khan with his life and the safety of the Key of the Three Moons. There's no reason that he would betray Quel'thalas like that."

"And he's a fool for it," Arthas snapped. "Dar'khan is playing him like a fiddle. He'll betray Quel'Thalas, and Lor'themar will be the first to fall."

She frowned at the way he spoke about her right hand in the Farstriders. "Don't push it, Prince.", she warned.

Arthas' face became stormy. "Dar'khan is a snake, Sylvanas.", he pointed out in frustration. "He's capable of anything, especially if it means gaining power. He'll sell his soul and Quel'thalas to the Scourge for a mere ounce of it! And if you won't see that, maybe King Anasterian will!"

He would be fooling himself if he thinks that King Anasterian would listen to him. But he has to take this seriously somehow.

Without waiting for a response, Arthas climbed onto his steed's saddle and galloped to Silvermoon while the others watched him go with concern and confusion.

The Ranger-General watched the Prince's retreating figure with both anger and frustration. "How do you manage to keep up with him?" she asked Jaina, who was in the process in climbing into her own horse with Falric doing the same.

Jaina, who had known about Dar'khan from Arthas before they left, carefully chose her words. "Because what he does is to make sure that no one else would have to be victims to the Scourge," she replied as she stared at Sylvanas, hoping that she would listen to reason. "He's seen so much already. Knew a lot already. And like you, Sylvanas, he's incredibly headstrong and determined to prevent any more people from suffering such a cruel fate."

The elf's eyes narrowed at the mention of her own stubbornness. "And what of your Alliance?" she countered. "Why are you really here? To save us or to secure your own borders?"

The sorceress was calm, but her tone was firm. "We're here because if Quel'Thalas falls and the Sunwell is tainted," she began, "it becomes everyone's problem. We have to trust with one another. And Arthas knew where his heart is."

"It's hard to trust him if he's acting like this," Sylvanas finally said in frustration, climbing onto her horse.

"I trust that he is trying to do what he believes is right," Jaina corrected her. "And that is all any of us can ask of each other."

"Why are you so willing to believe in him?" Sylvanas asked in a more softer tone.

"Because," Jaina said with a sigh, "I've seen the lengths he would go to prevent any more tragedies from happening and his dedication to keep on going despite what people may say."

Jaina's horse galloped, followed by Falric as they followed the Prince into Silvermoon. Shaking her head in frustration, Sylvanas followed suit, tailed by Nathanos and a few of her Farstriders.

"Nathanos, try and find that letter that the Prince is claiming that he sent me.", Sylvanas instructed him. "We can't leave anything else to chance.

The human Ranger-Lord nodded fervently. "As you wish, my lady.", he replied.

At Silvermoon's Throne Room...

"I'm telling you, your Majesty!", Arthas pleaded with the seated form of King Anasterian on his throne with Felo'melorn at his side. "Magister Dar'khan Drathir is already planning your Kingdom's downfall! If you don't apprehend him now, Silvermoon is lost and the Sunwell open for contamination!"

He had been telling them this for the past ten minutes but they wouldn't budge. Amongst those inside the throne room are Grand Magister Belo'vir Salonar (whom he personally sliced off his arm using Frostmourne), retired High Priest Vandellor, High Priestess Liadrin and Magister Rommath.

Lives he either ruined or destroyed when he first invaded with the Scourge that was made possible because of Dar'khan's betrayal.

Behind him, Jaina and Falric were watching as the scene unfolded while Sylvanas was beside Arthas as he tried to give bring forth his explanations and warnings to them. But without anything to give proof, they aren't going to believe an outsider with bizarre claims other than his own memories of his previous life.

Sylvanas stepped forward to address King Anasterian."Your Majesty," she began measuringly. "The Prince of Lordaeron speaks of treachery within our ranks, specifically of Dar'khan Drathir. He claims that the Magister is planning to betray us to the Scourge."

Anasterian remained calm as he regarded the human prince before him. "And what evidence does he have to support these claims?" he asked, skeptical and formal

Arthas's frustration grew with every passing second. "No evidence yet," he admitted, "but you have to believe me! I've even warned Sylvanas for months!"

"And I didn't receive any sort of warning, Prince.", the Ranger-General shot back to him. "You suddenly brought up such claims all of a sudden without any merit."

"Suspicion is not evidence!" One of the elf nobles interjected. "If you still clung onto your baseless accusations, then consider yourself trying to sow discord amongst our Kingdom!"

"Why does Lordaeron even want to involve itself in our affairs? We could have handled this invasion ourselves!", another noble added.

"What are your true intentions, human?", one of them spoke. "Are you here to help us? Or help yourselves?"

Arthas mentally smacked his forehead in utter frustration. Elves and their pompous nature and their arrogance..., he thought, resisting the urge to rant at them that contained behavior not befitting before monarchs like Anasterian.

He knew he had to get to them somehow. "Do you think sending a letter while Andorhal is being torn apart while we investigated the plague that the Scourge had orchestrated is evidence enough to raise some suspicion at least? If we don't act now-"

The King held up a hand to silence him. "We do not take such accusations lightly, Prince Arthas," he bellowed. "If you wish to be believed, you must bring forth proof of this treachery."

"But if we wait for proof, it might be too late!" Arthas exclaimed in urgency and frustration. "Magister Drathir is already planning on your Kingdom's downfall and allow the Scourge and the Orcs to rampage through your homeland!"

The King was unconvinced. "Your claims are...unnerving, Prince Arthas," Anasterian remarked. "While I do not doubt your intentions, I cannot risk our kingdom based on your intuition alone."

The room was silent and Arthas felt the king's look upon him. He clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw tight. "You're making a mistake," he warned. "And if Dar'khan does betray you, it will be on your head, not mine."

"If so, then the Alliance is free to leave Quel'thalas", Anasterian bellowed. "With the threat of the undead decimated, the Quel'dorei would be able to route the remaining undead along with their orc and troll allies. We extend our thanks, but as we speak, the Alliance has no obligation to remain in Quel'thalas. Or was it simply a gesture to gain a debt from the elves for your personal ambitions?"

Arthas felt like he was being spat on his face. "You're asking us to leave?!", he asked in indignation. Sylvanas stared at Anasterian in disbelief. Arthas and his men have been a boon in defeating the Scourge several times, and asking him to leave when they're still struggling in holding the line against the onslaught was not a good move. "And why would I have ambitions like that?"

Anasterian stood up. "Let me be clear to you, Prince Arthas.", the King began. "I will not waste elven lives on another war once the threat of the undead is over. I no longer have any oaths to uphold and we elves owe nothing anymore to your war against the undead."

Jaina and Falric stared at one another with their jaws open in disbelief. Is he fucking serious now?

"If need be, we can send supplies to Lordaeron, but nothing else. We can deal with the Blackrock Orcs and the Amani Trolls as we dealt with their kind before, and we don't need to drain our resources any further. This plague is magical in origin according to our Magisters, which we can handle ourselves."

The chamber was in a boiling point. Arthas wasn't going to let that slide, not from an arrogant fool like Anasterian. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "Now you listen here, you relic..."

The elves in the room bristled with anger at Arthas's words with offense and skepticism. Only Anasterian remained unfazed as he watched Arthas pushed on as his tone was becoming higher. "You may think that Quel'thalas's fate is your own concern, but make no mistake—it's all our problem," he declared. "If the Sunwell falls into the hands of the Scourge, if Dar'khan turns it against us, it's not just your people who will suffer. It's all of us. And if you refuse to see that, then you're as blind as you are stubborn."

The elven guards took a step forward, their hands on their weapons, but Sylvanas held up a hand to stay them. "Continue," she urged him with gritted teeth.

"We're not here because we want to interfere," Arthas began in a strained tone, restraining himself from outright ranting at him. "We're here because we can't afford to lose the Sunwell or have your people be infected . And if you won't help us prevent that, then you're as much a part of the problem as Dar'khan."

Anasterian leaned forward slightly, his expression still unreadable. "Your words are strong, Prince Arthas. But you stand before us with no evidence, only suspicion."

"That is why I came," Arthas protested in frustration . "I came to warn you of the danger that is already within your walls! Dar'khan is a traitor, and he will not hesitate to sell us all out to the Scourge!"

"You come to us, a human, and speak of betrayal," Anasterian said, his eyes narrowing. "How do we know it is not you who seeks to manipulate us?"

"Because I have nothing to gain from your downfall," Arthas shot back with sincerity . "But Dar'khan does. He's been biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike likely speaking to people who are very eager to use your corpses and the Sunwell for their own purposes. If you won't listen to me, then you're dooming us all."

Sylvanas stepped closer, locking her eyes into him. "If your intentions are true, then you will find the proof we require," she added. "But until then, your words are just that—words."

Arthas's patience was wearing thin, his fists clenched at his sides. "Fine," he spat. "I'll get you your evidence. But if anything happens while I'm gone—anything—then I'm free to say that I tried to warn you."

Anasterian signaled his guards to escort Arthas, Falric and Jaina out of the throne room. But before they could, something had happened. And Arthas could only sigh with a groan.

The doors swung open with a bang where it revealed two figures, looking pained, panic and outraged.

Ranger Captain Halduron Brightwing practically stumbled through them, his arm around a visibly injured Lor'themar Theron. His right eye was a mess of blood and bruises, his clothes tattered and his bow slung over his shoulder at an awkward angle. "Your Highness," he gasped painfully, "We have been betrayed!"

Anasterian quickly turned his attention. "By whom, Lor'themar?"

The room erupted into chaos as the elves within drew their weapons, their eyes going to the human prince who had just been arguing with their king.

Arthas could only stand there, his face buried in his hand, feeling the weight of his own words come back to haunt him. "The Magisters operating Ban'dinoriel are dead," Lor'themar continued, shaking with pain and rage. "The Key of the Three Moons are missing. The inner elf gate is compromised!"

Sylvanas's eyes went wide with horror. "What?" she demanded. "How?"

"Dar'khan," Halduron spat out in anger and resentment of the Magister. "He's been in league with someone called Tichondrius. They're already at the gates with the undead, Blackrock orcs, and Amani trolls. They know our locations, our weaknesses."

Lor'themar stumbled forward in both pain and regret. "It's true," he managed to say. "Dar'khan...he's been in contact with a demon named Tichondrius. He knew where we were because..." He painfully sighed. "Because I was a fool to trust him with their locations."

Sylvanas froze as she remembered the exact words that Arthas shouted at her back then: 'And he's a fool for it. Dar'khan is playing him like a fiddle. He'll betray Quel'Thalas, and Lor'themar will be the first to fall.'

For Arthas, trying to help them was a more challenging task compared to slaughtering them in his previous life. But he's not going to bring that up. "I...I did give Sylvanas a letter asking her to investigate Dar'khan. But she claimed that she never received any letters from me.", Arthas spoke out.

"What is he speaking of, Sylvanas?", Anasterian asked of her.

Nathanos rushed forward at the throne room, noticing Lor'themar's injuries before he turned to Sylvanas. "I have not found any letters that are from Prince Arthas.", he reported amidst the pants. "But one of Lady Vereesa's letters coincided with the timeframe that Prince Arthas claimed that he sent them."

Sylvanas took the letter and opened them. From above, was a letter of condolence to the Archmage Rhonin, Vereesa's husband. But the contents below, caused her blood to freeze. "Sylvanas, what is inside that letter?", Anasterian further demanded.

Sylvanas felt a cold sweat break out on her brow as she turned to face the king. "Your Highness," she began, her voice shaking slightly. "Ranger-Lord Marris has searched for any correspondence from Prince Arthas regarding Dar'khan. Unfortunately, he has not found any such letters in our possession."

The room grew even quieter. King Anasterian's gaze bore into her, demanding an explanation. Sylvanas took a deep breath, preparing herself for the revelation that could change everything.

Her hand trembled as she unfolded the parchment, revealing the unmistakable seal of the Alliance. The king leaned forward, his eyes scanning the page with a furrowed brow. "What does it say?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Sylvanas's heart hanmered profusely as she read the damning words. "It speaks of an urgent warning from Arthas, sealed with his personal emblem," she murmured in dread. "He knew...he knew all along."

And this is the price of pride and complacency: the very idea that their homeland would fall because they refuse to listen or believed in their own infallibility.

And all of a sudden, Sylvanas didn't feel like she was the Ranger-General of Quel'thalas. But the biggest fool of Quel'thalas for not heeding the concerns of outsiders who tried to warn her of the danger and dismissing them because of her own resentment. The letter he had sent those months ago through Vereesa from Dalaran, they weren't ramblings of a paranoid man causing any sort of discord. But a warning from the Prince who had fought the Scourge longer than any of them.

"What is he speaking of, Sylvanas?", Anasterian again demanded at the Ranger-General and she could feel the eyes of everyone darting at her own error of judgement.

She looked around them and then to the King. She could remember as to how King Anasterian spoke highly of her parents, Lireesa and Verath as well as her own missing sister, Ranger-Captain Alleria.

She had always strived to be better than Alleria whom many of her own people felt was better suited as Ranger-General like their mother before her. But it was clear that her reputation and of her own standing amongst the elves is on very thin ice. "The letter-"

"What letter, Sylvanas?", the King pressed on harshly, his own patience growing very thin as he needed answers immediately when the enemy is now advancing through their homeland. "What did the Prince say?"

Sylvanas felt the color drain from her face as she realized how terrible her mistake was. Stumbling over her words, she tried to explain, "The letter...it was from Arthas, months ago. He warned us about Dar'khan, telling us that his loyalty must be put into question and that he must not be trusted, but... I didn't believe it. I didn't take it seriously enough to investigate..."

"And where is that letter?", Anasterian demanded, making it clear that there will be no argument between them.

Sylvanas pulled out a parchment from her pocket and gave it to him with a slightly trembling hand, almost as if preparing to refuse doing so. Anasterian read out the letter in complete dismay where Arthas had written it for her through her sister Vereesa. "Bid your wife, Lady Vereesa, to warn Sylvanas of Magister Dar'Khan Drathir. His loyalty to their cause is in question. He is not to be trusted and to be watched closely.", he bellowed within the throne room for everyone to hear.

The letter indeed looked like it was written from months ago. And the Arthas' own seal was present as proof that he himself had sent the warning to her. And she did nothing to investigate or stop the traitor.

For Sylvanas, it was like a blow to the gut. If Arthas had indeed sent warnings and she had ignored them for months because she resented Vereesa that she missed Arthas' warning to her over Lirath's death, the blood of Quel'Thalas's fallen would be on her hands. She could feel the eyes of the court upon her, judging, accusing. "It appears...it appears that Arthas's claims may have merit," she admitted. "And I...I have his warning about Dar'khan for months..."

Sure enough, it went bad really quick.

The accusations flew through the air like arrows, each one hitting Sylvanas harder than the last. It grew louder as the elves, particularly that of the nobility, in the room pointed fingers at her with anger and disbelief.

"How could you be so blind, Ranger-General?"

"Lireesa and Alleria would be ashamed of you!"

"A human sees the truth before you?"

The words stung, each one a sharp reminder of her failure to protect her people. Falric and Jaina exchanged concerned glances as the room grew increasingly hostile.

"I did not have the evidence!" she snapped back. "I could not act on mere suspicion!"

"Yet a human outsider knew better than you?" another elf sneered, pointing at Arthas.

Nathanos was visibly dismayed and angered as to how quickly they turned against her, as did Halduron and Lor'themar. The human Ranger-Lord was prepared to stand in her defense but one of them beat him to it.

Arthas stepped forward, realizing his decision had led to her people discrediting her. "ENOUGH!" he roared. "We do not have the luxury of placing blame and pointing fingers! We have to work together to face this threat or there will be no Quel'Thalas left to argue over!"

He looked around the room, finding that of Sylvanas and held them for a moment.

Anasterian's expression was one of fury. He took a moment to compose himself before speaking calmly but barely. "You speak the truth, Prince Arthas," he conceded bitterly. "But know that this is not the end of this discussion. Sylvanas," he said, turning to her, "you will face the consequences of your negligence."

The Ranger-General was angered as she looked at the king, but she knew better than to argue in this moment. Instead, she spun on her heel and marched out of the Throne Room, her cloak billowing behind her. Arthas called after her, "Sylvanas, wait!". But she was already gone, the heavy doors slamming shut in her wake.

This was not what Arthas had fully intended for her. Discrediting and humiliating her was not part of the plan. And now, he squeezed his eyes shut in frustration at what just happened.

Jaina placed a hand on Arthas's shoulder, worried as he is. "Let her go," she said softly. "Give her time. But we first have to deal with the Scourge."

The King sighed. "What do you have in mind, Prince Arthas?", Anasterian asked, looking straight to him.

"We need evacuate the population from every exposed village or settlement," Arthas began. "We need to buy time for Silvermoon to prepare its defenses and for the civilians to escape by sea with the help of Lordaeron's navy. Our priority is the survival of your people, not the pride of fighting to the last man."

Anasterian looked at him. "And what makes you believe we would abandon our homeland? We will fight to the last man to protect Quel'Thalas."

"And what will that accomplish?" Arthas shot back. "You'll have a heroic last stand, and then what? A graveyard where your city once stood, and your people serving the Scourge?" He took a step closer to the elven king. "There won't be a Quel'Thalas if its people are turned into an undead horde."

The elven king remained silent for a moment, considering his words. Then, with a nod, he gave his consent. "Very well," he said, his voice firm. "Lor'themar, Grand Magister Salonar, you will fortify the city and hold the line as long as you can. Halduron, I leave the evacuation in your capable hands."

The Ranger Captain nodded. "It will be done, my king," he promised.

Arthas turned to the injured Lor'themar. "I know you want to fight, but right now, your people need you to lead and organize. Trust me, there will be plenty of battles ahead."

Lor'themar nodded, though his jaw was set in anger. "As you say, Prince Arthas." he grunted.

Anasterian turned to the two priests present. "Liadrin and Vandellor, prepare the healers for duty. There are bound to be more casualties than we would initially expect."

"It will be done, your Highness.", Vandellor complied, being helped by Liadrin to move to their location.

The elven king's gaze shifted to Arthas once more. "Thank you for your counsel," he finally said. "I hope for your sake, and for ours, that your intentions are as noble as you claim."

Arthas nodded in approval at him. "I assure you, they are," he said. "But we have no time to waste on doubt, not when we have an entire population to safeguard."

Meanwhile at the Inner Elf Gate Outpost...

Civilians are fleeing.

Their troops have begun to mobilize as many of them are panicking on what is happening, when the Ban'dinoriel was shut down. Jenalla and a few Farstriders are in the process of evacuating civilians to Silvermoon, while the humans Captain Marwyn and Lieutenant Thassarian hastily constructed barricades with their men to impede the undead.

Sylvanas couldn't believe what is happening. And this was all coming ahead.

Ever since she was a child, her mother Lireesa, and the Ranger-General before them, had instilled of them values. They were harsh, but it gave them a sense of purpose to protect their homeland at any cost. She had high expectations, and Sylvanas was determined to meet them.

When Lireesa was killed, Sylvanas was thrusted into he role as Ranger-General when Alleria chose to do her duty to the Alliance by heading to who knows where when she and her companions fought the Horde at the Dark Portal. Ever since then, the people's expectations have always grown for Sylvanas as she tried to meet and supercede those of her mother and her sister when it came to duty.

When Lirath died, Sylvanas became cold but she wanted to preserve his memory by becoming the protector that he never got to be. And she did so by fiercely protecting her homeland, and she held her pride up high as a means to hide her inner doubts and fears

And now, her homeland was at the risk of being overrun by the undead, the Orcs and the trolls because of her own negligence by refusing to read her sister's letters.

Somehow, her heart yearned to blame Arthas for humiliating her in the eyes of the people and her King which led everyone to question her abilities as Ranger-General.

Ever since he shown up, he was like some sort of savior that managed to not only save them, but beat back the Scourge very effectively using unorthodox tactics several times, which made her people's opinions of him to be vastly improved.

All Sylvanas felt were anger and embarrassment. She heard the talk of elf civilians and warriors alike, speaking in hushed tones of the human prince who had helped them. His name, Arthas, seemed to hang in the air, a constant reminder of her failure to heed his warning. She clenched her fists in anger. How could she have been so blind? So consumed by her own pride and grief that she had ignored the very warnings that could have prevented this?

The knowledge that her negligence had led to their current predicament was a knife twisting in her gut. She had allowed Dar'khan to slip past her, all the while her own sister and Arthas had tried to warn her. Sylvanas felt her people's accusations, their doubt in her leadership. The nobility had thrown her to the wolves in front of the court, using her to save face while the truth of her mistake spread like wildfire. She knew Arthas wasn't the smug type, but in her fury, she couldn't help but imagine him watching her with a smirk, knowing that he was right all along.

In her mind, the Prince had humiliated her in front of the king and her people. Arthas genuinely had the best intentions at heart. But by failing to warn them or investigate Dar'khan as Arthas requested her from those months passed, she was viewed as incompetent and was discredited in the eyes of her own people who often brought up that Alleria was a better choice than her.

The Prince had suddenly barged in with the claim that he wants to defend Quel'thalas. But in Sylvanas' mind, he thought the Elves were a burden that they needed to help in order to secure their own borders.

She could imagine Arthas being so smug and looked down on her for her own shortsightedness. But her comrades thought otherwise and saw that Arthas was very genuine to help them. His wish to help them only infuriated her, as if they, the Farstriders, was very incapable of handling themselves without his help.

She looked for any signs of the man who had upended her world. She knew she needed to speak with him, to understand how he had foreseen this betrayal when she had not. But she also feared what he would think of her. Would he look at her with disappointment? Or worse, pity?

No... I'll make this right..., Sylvanas thought to herself. She would not let her people down again. She would not allow Arthas to be the hero while she was vilified. She would prove to Anasterian, to her people, to Arthas himself that she earned her post. She would not let the memory of Lirath be tarnished by her incompetence.

"We will fight," she declared. "We will fight with everything we have to protect our home. Even if it came at the cost of our own lives".

Chapter Text

Crossing through Fairbreeze Village just near Silvermoon, Arthas and Jaina along with their men have begun their trek toward the now vulnerable Inner Elf Gate. Captain Falric and a contingent of the 1st Legion had opted to stay behind to help Lor'themar and Belo'vir fortify Silvermoon for the impending invasion. Joining them is a sizeable Quel'dorei contingent of warriors, mages and archers led by Ranger Captain Brightwing to support the Alliance expedition.

Hopefully, Sylvanas wouldn't have done anything drastic that may harm herself or her men while they were on their way. From the look she had when she stormed out of the throne room, both Arthas and Jaina worried for her safety.

Sylvanas had always been prideful and dedicated to their homeland. Arthas felt a pang of sorrow of him indirectly discrediting and humiliating her in front of the people when all he intended was for their cooperation. And now, Arthas felt that she hated him because of that. Likely the same way she hated him as an undead after he destroyed her life and turned it into a living nightmare.

Jaina looked over at Arthas, noticing the furrow in his brow and the distant look in him. "You're worried about Sylvanas, aren't you?" she gently asked.

Arthas sighed heavily, focusing on the road ahead of him. "Yes," he admitted. "I never meant to put her in such a position, Jaina."

"What do you mean?" Jaina inquired, her own concern for Sylvanas clear in her tone.

"Because I only intended to reach out my message to her, Jaina." Arthas began. "But I also knew that Anasterian would not take the word of a mere human prince seriously, not without evidence that would be damning to his own court. Sylvanas...she is the one with the ear of the King. I thought that if she could be made to understand, she would be able to convince him where I couldn't."

"But why not just go to the King directly?" Jaina pressed.

"Because I knew he would not believe me," Arthas bitterly replied. "He would see it as an attempt to manipulate his decisions, to sway him against his own people. And Sylvanas...she is the Ranger-General. Her word carries weight, especially when it comes to the defense of Quel'Thalas. What I didn't take into account, is that she didn't read Lady Vereesa's letters to her where I had it sent there because I thought she'd take her word more seriously with her giving weight in what I sent."

They rode in silence for a few moments before Jaina spoke again. "You know she's stubborn, Arthas. And she hates admitting when she's wrong."

"I know," Arthas nodded. "That much hasn't changed from the last time I knew her."

"But she is loyal to her people," Jaina offered, trying to find some comfort in their predicament. "If she knows the truth, she will do what's best for them, even if it means swallowing her pride."

Arthas nodded again, though he was both doubtful and hopeful of that. "I just hope she doesn't do something rash," he muttered. "Her hot-headedness has cost her before."

Jaina rode a bit closer to him. "We have to trust her, Arthas," she said. "And if she doesn't reason, we will be there to help her. Together."

The human prince looked at her, his gaze filled with a mix of gratitude and determination. "I hope so, Jaina."

Halduron couldn't help but ride a bit closer to the two, his curiosity picqued. "Prince Arthas. Lady Proudmoore. If you don't mind me asking, how is that you have been aware of Dar'khan's betrayal long before we have?", the Ranger Captain inquired the two humans, still reeling from the Magister's betrayal.

The two looked at one another worriedly, wondering how could they explain that. Of course, Arthas couldn't say that his past life saw it himself, so he had to think of a more suitable story for that. "While we were investigating the plague that swept Andorhal, Kel'thuzad had spoke of making a 'deal' with Dar'khan within the Cult of the Damned where he would gain his allegiance in exchange for power."

They waited the elf's reaction at the fabricated story before Halduron raised an eyebrow in realization. "I distinctively remember Prince Kael'thas voting for his expulsion from the Kirin Tor's Council of Six from what he told to his father. Regarding practicing powers similar to that of the Scourge."

"Yes, he has.", Jaina affirmed for him. "Though Kael is still in Dalaran by this time and we need his help to make sure the Sunwell is still secured."

Arthas looked at Halduron, recalling as to how he and Lor'themar had barely managed to escape Dar'khan. "How did he kill the Magisters, Brightwing?", he carefully asked. "And was there something different about what Dar'khan is usually capable of?"

"Dar'khan," Halduron began with a narrowed glare as if the Magister was right in front of him, "was a sight to behold. Or rather, a nightmare. He reveled in the chaos, his eyes burning with a malice I had never seen in an elf before. He slaughtered the Magisters without remorse, and when they fell, he didn't just leave them to the embrace of the grave. No, he twisted their lifeblood, corrupted it with some dark power, and brought them back to serve his will." He paused to take a steadying breath. "The way he did it... it was unnatural, like watching something that should never have been born. The energy that surrounded him was alien, powerful, and... wrong."

"It sounded like necromancy to me," Jaina surmised with distaste, glancing at Arthas who clenched his right fist. "Only a few managed to resist the call in playing god over life and death."

"And he used that power to massacre our platoon as we tried to confront him.", Halduron further narrated in anger. "But there is another source of power that he used. It was ghastly green, almost exclusively made to destroy only. And it changed him in horrifying ways imaginable. He almost didn't look like an elf anymore. His skin was a shade of blue-green, stretched tight over his bones, his eyes burned brightly as he cackled."

"Fel energy.", Arthas surmised. "Tichondrius likely gave him a taste for it as payment for selling out Quel'thalas, and now he's become addicted to it. It corrupts everything it touches, twisting and warping it until it's almost unrecognizable."

"Lor'themar and I barely managed to escape.", Halduron continued. "But as for the Key of the Three Moons, we tried to to hide it as the best we could, though we can't say if Dar'khan has found it or not yet."

The two humans looked repulsed at the thought, deciding to try and pry a little more about the traitorous Magister. "Anything else you've managed to gather about him, Halduron?", Arthas pressed.

Halduron looked down for a moment. "There are rumors that Dar'khan is engaged into research regarding a realm where everything is of perpetual darkness and potentially, the antithesis of the Light itself. According to him, they were fragments of an ancient world teetering onto something along with a very powerful ancient object but couldn't surmise what or where it is."

Both Jaina and Arthas were intrigued at that. She glanced at Arthas, silently asking him if he was aware of such a thing where he only shook his head in response, genuinely not knowing what Dar'khan had researched as he mostly left the Elf alone and in charge of the Ghostlands after he was done with Quel'thalas.

"We'll deal with that later after more important work is done.", Arthas firmly stated, going on ahead to the Outpost where Jaina and Halduron tailed him closely. "Right now, Sylvanas needs our help."

Back at the Inner Elf Gate Outpost...

Sylvanas panted, landing the last of her arrows onto one of the Blackrock Warriors as he came charging right at her.

There are so many of them. With every man they have lost, it only adds to the Scourge's manpower. And the Orcs reveled in the burning of the villages like children playing in the sandbar. Velonara, Anya and Nathanos fought with the same zeal as her, but it was growing evident that they too are getting exhausted.

The Ranger-General looked across the battlefield, feeling the rush into her heart as she took in the carnage around her. The cries of the dying and the roars of the invaders pierced the air that tangled with the crackle of burning wood and the clang of steel. Her Rangers fought as hard as they could against the brutish onslaught of the Blackrock Orcs and the mindless Scourge that surrounded them, and their numbers seemed endless. Captain Marwyn and Thassarian's men are holding the line through a shield wall along with whatever artillery they could spare, and are struggling to hold the line without the Prince leading them.

As if called upon by the dark thoughts in her mind, a massive orc wielding a burning broadblade emerged, looking at her with a cold, malicious glee and he appeared in a red hue where he destroyed her how, forcing her to use two curved blades against an unusual red-skinned Orc.

"Should have hid amongst your trees, elf," Wrathjaw sneered, in both contempt and disdain. "I will finish where Doomhammer failed by burning down your pathetic spires."

Sylvanas gritted her teeth against the Orc, having remembered on having fought the Horde invasion those fifteen years ago. The Scourge are coming in droves, resurrecting every elf or fallen orc to their service in their onslaught against the elves. "Then I'll make my stand here, Orc.", she declared. "Anar'alah belore!"

The two circled each other warily, and Sylvanas felt her muscles coiled like a spring ready to release their potential. With a roar, Wrathjaw lunged forward, raising his broadblade into a blur as he sought to cleave her in two. Sylvanas met his charge with a grace that seemed almost unnatural, her twin blades, parrying the incoming weapon as her knees buckled at the tremendous amount of force he applied to it before she was forced to disengage and leap away before the broadblade caught her head. Each parry and counterstrike was executed with a precision born of years of training and honed by countless battles.

The ground trembled beneath their feet, with their weapons sparking and chiming with every impact. The Warchief's blade was like a living flame, leaving trails of burning singes in its wake that scorched the earth and left it smoking. Sylvanas's curved blades, on the other hand complimented each other as she effectively used them defensively against the Warchief. Their styles were as different as night and day, yet equally lethal.

The Orc's blade arced through the air in a vicious downward swing, aimed at her unprotected neck. Sylvanas ducked beneath it, her blades slicing upwards in a swift counter that left a shallow gash across his chest. He grunted in surprose, but did not falter. Instead, he spun on his heel and brought his weapon around in a wide, sweeping arc that forced Sylvanas to leap backward to avoid. As she landed, she rolled to the side and sprang up again, preparing herself for another onslaught.

The two pushed the other to their limits. Wrathjaw's blade was a maelstrom of fire and Fel, a whirlwind that seemed to consume everything in its path. Sylvanas danced around the edges of this fiery storm, her blades cutting through the air with the speed of lightning. Even with her agility and skill, she could feel the weight of his blows, the raw power that lay behind each swing. Her armor was becoming now marred and scorched, her blue cloak stained with the soot of the burning world around them.

For every step she took back, Wrathjaw took two forward, driving her closer to the edge of the besieged village, to the very brink of despair. Yet she refused to yield and her eyes kept burning with the same fiery determination that had made her a legend among the Rangers of Quel'Thalas. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her arms felt like lead, but she would not, could not, give in.

As Wrathjaw raised his weapon for a final blow, Sylvanas knew that she had to act quickly. Gathering all her remaining strength, she feigned a retreat, only to pivot on one foot and hurl herself at him with a scream. Her blades met his broadblade with a clang that echoed through the day, the impact sending a shockwave through her body. For a brief moment, the two of them were locked, their weapons crossed as they glared into each other's eyes.

She could feel the burn of exhaustion in her limbs, the cold grip of doubt squeezing at her heart, but she would not falter. Not here. Not now.

The shock that came filled the battlefield, as the Alliance Expedition and Quel'dorei reinforcements thundered into view. The sound of charging horses, the roar of Knights, and the howl of the 1st Legion boosted the spirits of the weary defenders. Arthas emerged at the forefront as he dashed against the Blackrock Warchief.

With a fierce roar of defiance, Arthas swung Light's Vengeance, and the power behind it sent the Fel Orc skidding several feet away from Sylvanas. Despite her fatigue and stubborn pride, she couldn't help but feel a flicker of relief. "Are you all right, Sylvanas?", the Prince inquired her worriedly but when Arthas offered her his hand to help her up, she swatted it away, in anger.

"I didn't need your help, Prince," she spat amidst smoke and exertion. "I can do this on my own."

Arthas's sighed, knowing her need to make amends from the earlier blunder. "Of that, I have no doubt, Sylvanas," he assured her, then looking over at Wrathjaw with a glare. "But right now, your people need you elsewhere. Ensure the civilians are evacuated. I'll hold him off as long as I can."

Sylvanas hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering just above the ground. She hated it when people take her battles away but she knew he was right; she had to prioritize the safety of her people. She then turned to her remaining forces. "Fall back! Make sure the remaining townsfolk have evacuated to Silvermoon!"

The Farstriders obeyed without question. Sylvanas watched them go, her heart heavy with the weight of her responsibilities. Only when they were a safe distance away did she allow herself to look back at Arthas, who was already facing the massive Warchief and gritted her teeth in frustration.

She hated that she needed rescuing again. And from the same person who more or less upended her world.

With that, Sylvanas turned away, her boots crunching in the ash-covered ground as she sprinted toward the village to defend the remaining villagers along with Anya, Velonara and Nathanos. But at least with the Alliance and Halduron's men backing them up, they'll be able to organize a defense line at Silvermoon.

As she retreated, Arthas gripped the shaft of his hammer tightly, feeling the cold of his infected arm, gritting his teeth. Not now..., he thought, feeling as if it was dying to get into battle once again. But first, he had to ensure that the future he sought to change was protected from the horrors that sought to claim it once more. With a roar that matched Wrathjaw's own, he charged into the fray, his hammer raised high, ready to smite the enemy and protect those he had vowed to save.

Sylvanas watched from the corner of her eye, having picked up a new bow where her arrows struck the charging Orcs in quick succession on the front, the side and the back. Even amidst the rush of needing to cover them, she couldn't help but reflect the choices she had made and the price she had paid for her pride. She found herself unable to ignore the burning question that had been plaguing her since his reappearance. Why? Why would Arthas still help her after all the times she shot him down and gave him the cold shoulder.

Further thoughts will have to wait. She would have to face the truth of her feelings and the reality of what had just occurred. For now she picked up a bow from a fallen Farstrider and she continued to launch arrow after arrow against an incoming Blackrock Raider and a warrior. She looked back of the human prince she had looked down upon and now found herself inexplicably indebted to.

Wrathjaw's broadblade found itself being parried by the Prince's hammer, causing sparks to fly as both combatants tried to overpower the other. "Paladin fools.", he spat in contempt. "You couldn't save your own city! What makes you think you can save these elves?"

"I've dealt and disposed with your kind before, Orc.", Arthas spat, breaking the lock between them as he and the Fel Orc circled around one another, pointing Light's Vengeance at him. "And I'll do it again."

The Warchief remained unfazed. "Khanzo and Genjuros were weak to have stood against you.", Wrathjaw spat with disdain regarding his fallen commanders. "They have lost their favor to the Legion."

The cursed power from his right arm flowed through him like an aura, and the ground beneath him began to be covered by ice and snow. "And now, you'll lose yours as well."

The two then charged at one another, and the resulting clash was nothing short of elemental Arthas brought down Light's Vengeance in a downwards' motion empowered by the Light as it descended upon the Fel Orc. Wrathjaw met the blow with his own weapon, the blade's crimson flames colliding with the light of the hammer's might. The impact resulted in a resounded the shockwave rippling through the ground, toppling nearby trees and scattering the ashes of the fallen like leaves before a storm.

Almost as if they are the fiercest rivals, Arthas and Wrathjaw traded blow for blow as they moved into two blurs from the perspective of their respective forces, one yellow and one red. Arthas' strikes called forth the very essence of the Light, each swing that is parried by the Orc Blademaster's weapon with precision and finesse. The snow and ice that followed in his wake, as a result of his corrupted power empowering his strikes, coated the battlefield in a pristine, frosty sheen that starkly contrasted with the inferno that was Wrathjaw's domain. The Fel Orc's blade left trails of green fire in its wake as he spun and struck with the agility of a predator born in the heart of the most volcanic lands.

Their movements were a blur, a spectacle of speed and power that left the onlooking soldiers and Rangers in awe. The icy hue of his right arm grew more pronounced with every clash, the curse seemingly at war with the holy light that suffused him.

Wrathjaw swung his broadblade in a wide arc, a fiery tornado that threatened to engulf Arthas in a maelstrom of flame. But the prince of Lordaeron remained calm. He stepped into the blaze, his eyes closed in concentration, and with a flick of his wrist, sent a shard of pure ice hurtling through the fire, shattering it into shards that pierced the ground around the Warchief and momentarily stunning him, allowing Arthas for an opening that was quickly closed by the Warchief.

In that moment, Arthas allowed himself to let go.

Each swing of the hammer brought forth a breeze of ice and snow, while each strike of the broadblade painted the air with crimson flame. The ground trembled under their relentless assault, as the two pushed the boundaries of their respective powers to the breaking point.

Arthas' right arm glowed in a faint icy blue hue that augmented Light's Vengeance, each swing of his weapon leaving a trail of frost in its wake. His every step sent shards of ice shooting out like a blizzard's fury, each one aimed to pierce the thick armor of the Fel Orc. Yet, Wrathjaw remained unyielding. His blade, a fiery pendulum of destruction, met Arthas's hammer with a deafening clang that echoed through the battlefield. The ground around them grew hot as molten rock, the snow and ice retreating before the onslaught of the Warchief's fury.

Arthas could barely hold himself together. Quickly, he moved to intercept the fiery flurry of Wrathjaw's strikes, blocking every one of them until he tried to break the stalemate by swinging his weapon down. However, this is what Wrathjaw expected as he swung his broadblade upwards and to Light's Vengeance, taking it out of Arthas' grasp and sending it flying before it landed on the scorched earth.

The Prince watched as Wrathjaw moved to gut him entirely. The rush that he felt and the fear going into his right arm. In its stead, a dark power began to coalesce around his right arm, a power that he had hoped never to feel again. The cold grew more intense, the very essence of the curse pulsing through his veins.

What is this...?, Arthas thought to himself. With a snarl that was more beast than man, Arthas raised his corrupted limb, and from the maelstrom of frost and decay onto his palm, an ashen gray runeblade took shape and the blade glowed in a black and blue hue. The weapon had a silver pommel and a navy blue handle. It resembled Frostmourne, yet it was not the same cursed weapon that is a part of Ner'zhul's soul. The blade glowed with a blue hue that seemed to simmer the shadow and frost within.

Wrathjaw's eyes widened as he continued his strike until it was parried by the runeblade. To his shock, however, Arthas quickly broke the lock between them and sent the Fel Orc stumbling several feet away from the Prince.

Arthas balanced himself, gazing upon the weapon that manifested from the power of his cursed arm. Gripping it tightly, Arthas outstretched his right arm and pointed the runeblade at the Fel Orc, as if signalling him to strike first as his eyes glowed in a turqoise ember.

Feeling the adrenaline of battle flow through her, Jaina raised her staff to cast an icy wall to protect the fleeing Quel'dorei villagers as Thassarian and Koltira cut through their ranks with vigorous synergy. Her water elementals lunged forward, striking with the force of a tidal wave against an incoming group of Blackrock Orcs and Amani trolls, knocking the invaders back and giving the fleeing civilians a chance to escape.

With grace, she conjured a barricade of ice, blocking the path of the pursuers and buying precious time for the defenseless to flee. Concentrating what she had learned, Jaina casted several Flarecores into the amassing group of undead, where they exploded upon contact of the undead and blowing apart several of them.

Focusing her magic, she casted five frost blades, finding their marks on several Orc Raiders charging at her, freezing them in place. Seeing her chance, she unleashed several frost volleys at them, shattering them completely.

The elven mages and Magisters who had come to stand beside her watched in awe as she fought. They had heard rumors of the potential of the Kirin Tor Grand Magus' apprentice, but to see it firsthand was to witness it was breathtaking. Her blizzard froze the ground beneath the enemy's feet, leaving them stumbling and vulnerable to the arrows and swords of the warriors. Her flaming pyroblasts scorched the air, resulting of cindered orcish flesh and bone falling down.

"By the Sunwell!" One of the Magisters were awed with amazement as Jaina conjured a colossal ice blockade, halting the tide of undeath. "Her power is unrivaled!"

The elf mages and Magisters watched the human prince with a mix of suspicion and respect, unsure of his true intentions but unable to deny the strength he brought to their cause. Yet the sight of these two assisting the Quel'dorei gave made them believe that they have a chance against these monstrosities sent by the Scourge.

Keeping her focus on the battlefield summoned three water elementals. Pointing her staff at the onslaught, the elementals obeyed her command, their forms solidifying into three colossal tidal waves that surged towards the onrushing horde.

The waves collided with the orcs, trolls, and Scourge with a deafening roar, sending them sprawling and gasping for breath. As the water receded, leaving the enemy momentarily stunned, she raised her staff high. "Freeze," she whispered, the word a frosty breath on the wind. A blast of pure, unbridled frost energy blasted forward, enveloping the soaked and disoriented invaders.

Their adversaries transformed into icy statues, halting their movements. The ground around them cracked and shimmered with the cold, as if the very fabric of the world itself had turned against them.

The elven defenders took advantage of the opening and Halduron signaled them to go forward as their arrows and spells now targeted the immobilized foes. The clatter of shattering ice filled the air as the Blackrock Orcs and Scourge fell, one by one, to the relentless onslaught.

In the midst of the battle, Thassarian and Koltira exchanged a look of amazement and admiration. "By the Sunwell," the elf murmured, "she truly is a force of nature."

His human counterpart nodded with a smirk. "Let's make sure they're not the only ones doing the hard work," he glanced over to their adversaries and the two warriors continued ahead.

For Arthas, wielding the power that he had held back reminded him of the days he engaged in senseless slaughter.

He had sworn to minimize its use as much as he could. But with the zeal that the Blackrock Warchief had shown, even in his past life, he was willing to make an exception.

And he was feeling the exhilaration and thrill of combat as he usually wouldn't feel before. "Blind loyalty to a lost cause rarely gets rewarded.", the Prince mused. "What is it that you intend to prove here?"

The Prince's runeblade sliced through the air, leaving a trail of frost that bit at Wrathjaw's flaming blade, as he weaved through the flurry of the Fel Orc's fiery attacks. Their little scuffle was exhilarating, as Arthas watched how fast his blade attacked matched as how fast he could parry and counterattack against him.

"The Blackrock Clan will be rewarded for its loyalty to the Legion!", Wrathjaw bellowed with rage and incredulity. "A place within the new order born from the ashes!"

Arthas' glowing turquoise eyes stared back at him with disdain and what resembled to be pity. "Loyalty to a master that uses you like a tool, a disposable pawn?" he sneered as his voice spoke like chilling wind that spread through the battlefield. "Prove it then, Orc. Show me how far your loyalty to your masters would go."

Wrathjaw roared in response of this challenge, his burning broadblade coming with the ferocity of a fiery whiplash. The prince met the attack with a casual ease that belied the ferocity of his own counter, the runeblade leaving a glowing arc of frost in its path.

"Loyalty or eternal servitude?" Arthas taunted, as each swing of his runeblade sent a shiver down Wrathjaw's spine, as if he knew the consequences that awaited him should he fail the Legion. "It appears the line isn't so clear for the likes of you."

Angered by this, Wrathjaw swung his broadblade in a wide horizontal arc, aiming to decapitate the prince. Arthas, with a speed that defied his size, brought the runeblade up in a swift, sizzling parry that sent sparks flying. The essence of his corrupted arm surged through the blade, and a thin, icy tendril shot out, slicing through the air and into Wrathjaw's left eye. The Orc roared in pain, stumbling back, his vision obscured by the sudden, bitter cold.

"Now, is that the sort of pain the Legion would give if you have failed?" Arthas jeered. "Or something new that you won't forget?"

Uther had once taught him to aggravate his opponent. Though his mentor later saw how much of a mistake it was that to teach him, Arthas saw the advantage it could give when facing brutes like this one over here.

Firing another arrow at a charging Amani Troll, Sylvanas quickly got ahold one of her curved blades where she sliced an Orc warrior's torso horizontally before quickly landed a slash that a gashing wound on his throat.

More than half of the civilians have been evacuated so far. But they needed to be fast.

But before she could, she couldn't help but watch the two humans from afar, and she felt...odd.

As the leader of Quel'thalas' armies and the Farstriders, everyone looked up to her for the defense of their homeland. Yet it was the two of them, the human prince and the sorceress, who were turning the tide of battle with their power.

It reminded her of Alleria and Turalyon during the previous war where they fought Doomhammer's forces in Quel'thalas How their own skill and bravery made them stand out against the best that the Horde could offer. While Sylvanas was left behind at Silvermoon, Alleria's name soon became anonymous to the countless heroes who fought the unimaginable. And the middle sister still stood under the shadow of her sister's achievements and her dedication to duty that likely ended her life when she came to that Alliance expedition with Turalyon.

And now, she felt like she was having the same feeling with the Prince and the Archmage.

The Farstriders around her whispered in amazement at the spectacle before them. "Look at Prince Arthas," one of them said. "He fights like the very incarnation of the frost itself fighting a raging inferno!"

"And Lady Jaina," another chimed in. "Her magic is like the fury of the tundra itself!"

Sylvanas gritted her teeth, unable to argue with their praise. Each parry, each spell cast by the two seemed to highlight her own limitations. The weight of her bow felt heavier than ever before, the sting of defeat threatening to consume her. She had fought and bled for Quel'Thalas for so long, had suffered so much, and yet here she was, feeling like a mere bystander in her own war.

It didn't help the fact that her own reputation was on the line after the whole incident in the throne room regarding her negligence.

But she knew she couldn't let these thoughts grow. They needed the humans, needed all of them, to stand against this new threat.

"Sylvanas!" Halduron shouted over her, his arrows finding their marks against their adversaries. "Almost all civilians are moved to Silvermoon! We have to fall back as soon as possible!"

"I know!" she barked back in frustration.

Inwardly, she admitted that she was in awe of them, despite the jealousy that burned within her. She knew that without their help, Quel'thalas would've fallen sooner. With a sigh, she pushed aside her bitterness and focused on the her work. They were not fighting for glory or recognition, but for the lives of their people, for the very future of their world.

Wrathjaw threw caution to the wind, charging at Arthas with the reckless abandon of a creature that had nothing to lose. The prince met him with a grim smile as he twirled his runeblade casually before countering the incoming broadblade.

Suddenly, however, several green orbs of swirling dark energy came at him and Arthas jumped away and onto Light's Vengeance, gripping his war hammer and strapping it behind him.

He had the nerve to show up again. And Arthas felt the adrenaline of finishing him where he stood.

"Warchief.", Wrathjaw turned as he panted, finding Kel'thuzad approaching him from behind. "I suppose you needed assistance?", the necromancer mockingly asked the Fel Orc before him.

The red-skinned Orc grunted in anger at the frail human behind him. "Go back to wherever whole you've come from, you insufferable human.", Wrathjaw spat, focusing on Arthas. "I'll deal with this paladin fool!"

Kel'thuzad only smirked at the power Arthas has displayed. "Hardly a Paladin I might say,", he remarked, referring to the Prince. So the power of the Lich King flows through you. "Bravado does not alleviate your predicament, Warchief."

With a thump of his staff, Kel'thuzad watched as numerous slain Quel'dorei, and Orcs began to rise from their positions, picking up weapons as they charged back at the Alliance and their Quel'dorei allies. His open palm hovered on the ground as numerous corpses of the slain Scourge began to knit themselves, creating Abominations that blindly charged at the defenders.

Arthas gritted his teeth, dashing over to try and take down Kel'thuzad right here before he could get near the Sunwell. But Wrathjaw intercepted him, glaring at the Orc's defense of the necromancer that sent Arthas skidding away after the Fel Orc broke the lock between them.

It was clear that the tide had turned once again, and the enemy's relentless push was about to break through their lines. Marwyn, and Halduron immediately noticed the danger. "Prince Arthas!" he bellowed over the din. "We have to fall back! The evacuation is complete!"

The sudden swarm of gargoyles swooping down from the skies terrified the defenders. Their leathery wings blocked out the sun as they descended upon the already battlefield, talons and claws outstretched, ready to rip into flesh and bone. The sound of their shrieks pierced the air, adding to the cacophony of battle cries and clanging steel.

Sylvanas, alongside Anya, Velonara and Nathanos, took aim at the oncoming creatures, their arrows finding their marks with unerring precision. Yet for every gargoyle that fell, two more took its place, the sheer volume of their numbers overwhelming.

But they suddenly found themselves being swarmed by undead Quel'dorei and Orcs, forcing them back.

The Alliance at this point, began their retreat as they crossed the bridge. Jaina, Halduron, Marwyn and Jennalla organized the evacuation as Arthas ran behind them.

As the last of the civilians were escorted away by the remaining soldiers, Arthas conjured a bridge of ice over the chasm that separated them from the relative safety of the Alliance lines. He watched as Sylvanas, wielding her two curved blades against the onslaught along her companions as they fought to cover the retreat.

"Just go!" she called out to him, her voice strong despite the exhaustion etched on her face. "We'll hold them off! Get them to Silvermoon!"

Before Arthas could go back to them, a group of Orc catapults hurled several projectiles, destroying the bridge before he could cross to her. "Hold on!", he shouted, concentrating his power to create a frozen bridge for them to cross.

But the Blackrock artillery was merciless, and it prevented Arthas from connecting the two separate landmasses in order to get to them. "Protect my people, Prince!", Sylvanas shouted, panting. "That's all I ask!"

Jaina looked in horror, recognizing that she would be unable to reverse teleport them as she rushed over at Arthas. The undead, Amani and the Blackrock Clan are closing in on them. "We have to go, Arthas!", she pleaded with him, looking anguished as she saw the Ranger-General and her group continue to fight. "We'll get back to them! I promise!"

She wasn't sure if she's promising the possible to him.

As they reached the other side, the enemy closed in,the two watched in horror as Sylvanas and the Farstriders were engulfed by the swarm of blackened forms.

"Sylvanas!" he screamed. But she was gone, swallowed by the fog and the tide of the battle.

Halduron and the others looked back, their faces a mix of shock and sadness. "We have to go, Prince Arthas," Halduron regretfully stated upon seeing the entire scenario unfold. gently, placing a hand on Arthas's shoulder.

The prince's eyes burned with unshed tears and rage, his gaze never leaving the spot where Sylvanas had been.

He had made a promise to her, a promise to prevent the destruction of her people and the pain she had endured.

And now, she was in danger of facing the same fate once more.

Sylvanas remained determined as she turned to face the. Her quiver was empty, her bowstring frayed, but she stood tall, her blade ready to clash with the orc's weapon. Nathanos, Velonara and Anya, their faces etched with fatigue and the stains of battle, formed a protective semicircle around her, their blades reflecting the eerie moonlight.

The four braced themselves with dread. The sound of a catapult's release echoed through the night, and the world around them grew dark as a massive boulder hurtled towards them.

The impact was deafening, the ground trembling beneath their feet as the boulder shattered into a hundred deadly shards. Sylvanas, Velonara, Nathanos, and Anya were sent flying and they stumbled . As the dust settled, the only sound was the slow, painful breathing of the fallen heroes.

Nathanos, crawled defensively on Sylvanas' injured form as she lay down, groaning. "You...will not take her," he growled painfully.

He was knocked out by a poke onto his forehead by the lead necromancer, who then looked over at Sylvanas with mock formality. "My sincere apologies, Lady Windrunner," he said, his voice a cold, mocking hiss. "I would have preferred a more formal introduction, but we have much to discuss ."

Wrathjaw's grinned, despite the bleeding of his left eye. Sylvanas looked up defiantly at him, spitting at the Necromancer. "You will never break me...", she hissed.

The necromancer darkly chuckled at the claim. "A very poor choice of words, my lady."

Wrathjaw strode through the wreckage, his gaze lingering on Sylvanas's prone form. He leaned down, his teeth bared in a snarl, and brought the handle of his broadblade down hard upon her head. The Ranger-General's eyes rolled back, and she fell into a deep, unyielding blackness.

"Take her to Sunfall...", Kel'thuzad instructed Wrathjaw and his orcs. "We will have our discussion with her, there. With regards of the Key to unlock the gates."

Everything is going as planned.

Back at Silvermoon...

The return to Silvermoon was both relieving as it was disheartening.

Though many civilians have found refuge behind its walls, many also fell during the defense of the Inner Gate. And Arthas, Jaina, and Halduron returned to the throne room where Falric and Ranger-Lord Lor'themar Theron were speaking to King Anasterian.

"Your Highness, the evacuation is complete," Halduron announced wearily as he approached the throne. "But... we have lost the Ranger-General. She remained behind to cover our retreat."

The room fell silent at the news and the nobility and Quel'dorei warriors paled as their morale plummeted. Anasterian grew grim as he looked down while Lor'themar was shocked as he outraged by the loss. "What?" he exclaimed in anger and disbelief. "Is she still alive?"

Arthas stepped forward. "Sylvanas is alive. I can feel it." He turned to Anasterian. "We must rescue her, Your Majesty. If we don't, she'll be turned into one of them."

After everything you've put me through, woman, the last thing I'll give you is a peace of dearh.

NO! You wouldn't dare!

"To fight alongside her people only to be reanimated to slaughter them... it is a fate worse than death.", he continued.

The King's looked softened. "Her loss is too great," he lamented. "But she knew the risks. And she knew that if it came to it, we could not spare the troops to search for her, as the defense of Silvermoon is paramount to get our people to safety."

"Your Majesty, I understand your concern," the Prince urgently began. "But Sylvanas had already done so much that most haven't, who has bled for Quel'thalas countless times. We can't just leave her to that fate."

The King's response was a softened look. "Arthas, I assure you, my decision is not based on her failure to warn us about Dar'khan. She and her family have given everything to our homeland. But we have to be practical. The enemy's forces are overwhelming, and we are spread thin as it is. If we split our forces to rescue one person..."

Jaina stepped in, sharing Arthas' sentiment. "We can't abandon her, Your Majesty. It's very likely she's still alive for interrogation due to her post. Which means we still have a chance!'

Anasterian stood up, contemplating their words. "You both care for her deeply," he remarked with understanding. "But the risk is too great. Our priority must be the city and its people. We will not sacrifice the many for the few,"

"But think of-"

"Sylvanas knew the risks when she chose to stay behind.", Anasterian continued. "She would not want us to throw away our advantage for a slim chance at saving her."

Jaina looked at Arthas. "We can't let them take her," she whispered fearfully. "We can't let her become one of them again."

However, Halduron decided to step forward. "Your Highness, I must insist," the Ranger-Captain spoke. "We cannot abandon Sylvanas after all she had done despite her mistakes and if there is a chance to save her, we have to take it." He looked to his comrades, looking on Arthas and Jaina before returning to the king. "Let us, a small group of Farstriders and I, venture to Sunfall Fortress. We can move swiftly and quietly, minimizing the risk to our main forces."

"Sunfall?" The King echoed, skeptically. "It's been abandoned for years, and it's deep in enemy territory."

"But it's also the most likely place they would take her," Lor'themar interjected, voicing his support of their mission but knew he couldn't join them as he is still helping fortify the city. "It's where she'd be most secure from our reach, yet still with our own."

The group waited for the king's response. Finally, after much consideratio, Anasterian nodded slowly. "Very well," he said with a heavy sigh. "Halduron, take a small group of Farstriders. Prince Arthas and Lady Jaina will accompany you. But be swift, and be careful. Our forces cannot be stretched thin."

The two humans looked at one another, determined and hopeful. They had a mission, a chance to save Sylvanas from her terrible fare. They couldn't fail. "Thank you, Your Highness," she said, bowing her head slightly, followed by Aethas. "We will not disappoint you."

Halduron glanced at the two with approval. "We leave at first light," he announced, turning to the others. "Prepare yourselves. We have little time."

As the group dispersed, Jaina reached out and took Arthas's left hand in her own, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We're going to save her," she promised.

Arthas looked back at her with determination on his features. "We will," he agreed, his grip on her hand tightening. "One way or another, we will not have a Banshee Queen this time."

Chapter Text

At Sunfall...

Sylvanas groaned, feeling pain all around her body slowly regained consciousness. She looked to find herself inside a prison cell, and she could feel the cold steel of the shackles biting into her wrists and ankles. "What... happened?" she managed speak out.

Nathanos stirred from his place beside her and was immediately concerned for her. "You're alive," he whispered in relief, looking at their chains. "They...they managed to overrun our positions before they took us here.

Velonara and Anya, equally bound and bruised, looked at their leader from their side. "We're in Sunfall, Lady Sylvanas," Anya spoke out in fear. "It's been overrun and used by the Scourge as a command post."

The Ranger-General sighrd heavily as she worriedly looked at her companions. Sunfall was originally built to interrogate Horde prisoners during the previous war but fell to disuse when peace reigned in, with Anasterian planning to order its demolition prior to the invasion. "And our people?" she anxiously asked.

"They've been evacuated to Silvermoon through portals," Nathanos assured her as a means to give some light in their predicament. "Prince Arthas and Halduron saw to it along with Lady Proudmoore and the others while we held the enemy off long enough."

It was good news that brought relief to Sylvanas, but it was short-lived when she soon realized as to why are they here now as opposed to the Scourge killing them. "They're going to make us talk." she warned them. "We need to be ready."

Velonara spoke up in both concern and fear. "Do you think Prince Arthas will come for us? Sunfall is far from Silvermoon. We could be long dead by the time he even learns of what happened to us."

Anya was hopeful, however. "He'll come," she insisted. "He won't leave us behind."

But Sylvanas remained silent. She knew the risks of staying behind, but she had hoped it wouldn't come to this. Due to her post as the leader of the forces of Quel'thalas, they would do what is necessary to break her and to reveal whatever she knew. But she wouldn't gave them that luxury.

Suddenly, the doors to the cell opened, and they stiffened upon seeing their captors. Kel'thuzad entered the room, followed closely by the Death Knights Rivendare and Barov and a couple of other undead guards.

"Hello there, Lady Sylvanas," Kel'thuzad greeted with a sneer. "I trust you're enjoying your stay?"

"Your hospitality leaves much to be desired," she spat out with anger and sarcasm.

"I do apologize for the...accommodations," Kel'thuzad replied with mock politeness. "But I'm sure you'll find our little chat quite enlightening." He gestured to the guards who flanked him. "We're here to discuss the a certain key to make a quick stop to your city. Magister Drathir was rather unforthcoming with its whereabouts. Perhaps you know something he didn't?"

Sylvanas smirked mockingly at him. "If I knew where it was, do you really think I'd be here?" she retorted.

"Ah, but you see, my dear, we have our ways of...persuading," the former Kirin Tor informed her with malicious glee. "And I'm quite certain you wouldn't want unnecessary issues in doing so."

"Go to the void, you bastard," she snarled. "I'll never tell you anything."

Kel'thuzad leaned over her, smirking. "Let us start this slowly, shall we?", he offered. "Where is the Key, Lady Sylvanas?"

The Ranger-General's glare only intensified. "You know I am not telling you anything, you freak.", she spat at him.

The necromancer gave her a feigned, pained reaction. "No?", he asked of her before turning to one of his guards, an undead Ironforge Dwarf, and took his flintlock pistol from his belt. "Then let us see if I can change your mind."

The necromancer gleefully turned and aimed the pistol at Nathanos's stomach, his finger squeezing the trigger with a sadistic smile. The gunshot echoed through the chamber, the lead slug ripping through the Ranger-Lord's tunic and embedding itself deep within his flesh.

"NO!" Sylvanas screamed in horror and anguish as she watched the man she cared the most fall to the ground, blood gushing from the gaping wound.

Anya's piercing, frightened screams were heard as she watched the horror while Velonara's curses grew louder, promising a gruesome end for their captor. "You BASTARD! I'm going to kill you!", she snarled at the necromancer

The Ranger-Lord's agonized gurgles were heard as he clutched at his stomach. He looked at her with shock and pain, and she saw the panic building up from it. "Nathanos! Look at me, Nathanos!" she sobbed with anguish. "Just...just hold on!"

Kel'thuzad stepped closer. "You see, we're making progress, aren't we?" he mused, watching the scene unfold with a twisted sense of amusement. "Now, let's not make this any more difficult than it needs to be, shall we?"

Sylvanas felt her heart torn, but her anger was stronger. "You're going to pay for this, you monster!" she snarled, trying to charge at Kel'thuzad but her chains held her back. "I SWEAR ON THE LIVES OF THE FALLEN, YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!"

The necromancer chuckled darkly. "Ah, such passion," he said, stroking his chin. "But I'm afraid you're wasting your breath, Lady Sylvanas. Tell me where the key is, and I might consider keeping your friend here from suffering a similar fate."

"You will never get anything from me, you hear me?!", Sylvanas screamed at him with rage. "NEVER!"

At this most dire time, she was hoping that Arthas or anyone could come for them.

Arthas sighed in urgency as he and Jaina walked through the decaying Silverpine forest, evading enemy patrols as much as they could in order to prevent any call for reinforcements while Halduron and a few Rangers took point to guide them to Sunfall. Jenalla looked to the skies,and voiced the concern that lingered on everyone's mind. "Captain," she whispered urgently, "why couldn't we have taken Dragonhawks? We could have been there and back before the sun sets."

Halduron remained stoic, but he was weary at the same time as he sighed heavily, wishing it were that easy. "The skies are not our ally, Deemspring," he replied. "Intelligence have reported the air is swarmed with gargoyles and bats. Too risky for flight."

Jaina nodded in agreement. "And the Scourge have fortified their positions with runic barriers," she added after much consideration. "Teleportation is out of the question, so we have to do this quietly but quickly."

The Farstrider looked to Arthas and Jaina, seeing their own determination fueling her own. "And what of when we return?" she asked. "The city will need us back as soon as possible for itsnderrnse. Can we not teleport back?"

The Archmage turned to Jenalla softly. "The Scourge have placed wards in preventing anybody from teleporting to their position," she explained. "But once we have Sylvanas and the rest, we can tear it down and I can teleport us back to Silvermoon."

Arthas gritted his teeth. "We'll get to Sylvanas," he uttered with determination. "Whatever it takes."

"Wouldn't your men need your assistance back at Silvermoon, Prince Arthas?", Halduron asked him, noticing his determination to save the Ranger-General.

"They'll manage on their own, Brightwing." Arthas assured him. "They've survived the plague, Northrend and the capital city. They'll survive this."

Brightwing only gave a nod of approval in return, as he had been a close friend of hers alongside Lor'themar's for years ever since they trained with the Farstriders. And he continued to lead the group with Arthas on his side.

Jenalla couldn't help but turn to Jaina. "He is quite determined to save Lady Sylvanas, is he?", she wondered.

The Archmage gave her a sad smile. "Because Arthas had known the pain the Scourge could inflict. He knows that no one has to go through suffering like that, when the crime that she did in the eyes of the enemy, was to protect their homeland at all costs. And that means something to him as well."

Not to mention, prevent her from being subjected in a torturous life the Scourge have in mind for her.

Both Halduron and Arthas stopped, where the Prince quickly drew Light's Vengeance while the Ranger-Captain pulled an arrow from his quill. "We're being watched...", Halduron cautioned and the rest formed a defensive.

And suddenly, a group of Amani Trolls emerged from the forests, raising their weapons against the team, roaring. "It's an ambush! Defend yourselves!", Arthas called out.

To their frustration, the rescue will have to wait.

Back at Sunfall...

For the first time in ages, Sylvanas felt utterly helpless.

Unable to fight back, do anything other than scream, and being forced to watch as Nathanos, her partner, confidant who had nothing but loyal to her, suffer because of her own defiance. But to surrender to Kel'thuzad would only mean surrendering everything she, her mother and her sisters fought for.

The necromancer's smile grew wider as he pointed the pistol at her forehead. "Your defiance only shows it's futility.", he mocked. He cocked the hammer back with a click. "Tell me where the Key is, or I might as well just show you just how futile it truly is."

She watched in horror as Kel'thuzad's finger tightened around the trigger, the firearm poised to end yet another life. But instead of the expected explosion, there was only a disappointing click. The necromancer frowned at this inconvenience, and he muttered an incensed curse under his breath. "It seems these... primitive tools are more difficult to operate than I anticipated," he sneered, tossing the gun aside.

"Barov, if you would," he said, gesturing to the terrified Farstrider, Anya who was shaking violently in fear.

"With pleasure." Barov stepped forward with a grin, as a gleaming runeblade appeared his grip.

Sylvanas' eyes widened in terror, as did Anya as she helplessly pleaded for her leader. "Lady Sylvanas-"

"No, wait...", the Ranger-General choked. "Dont-"

As if he didn't hear her, he stabbed Anya through the heart, the blade piercing through her chest with a sickening squelch. Her eyes widened in shock and pain, and she let out a choked gasp before her body went limp.

Sylvanas's heart shattered as she watched her companion and follower die before her very eyes while Velonara and Nathanos were repulsed as they were angered. Her scream of anguish echoing through the cell. "NO!" she wailed with tears streaming down her face as she struggled against her bonds, desperately trying to reach Anya. "You monsters! What have you done!?"

His smile was cold and empty as he regarded the carnage. "This could have been avoided, Lady Sylvanas," he pointed out mockingly. "All you had to do was tell us where the Key is." He leaned closer. "Your pride and defiance are your downfall. If you had just listened, none of this would have been necessary."

Through her tears, Sylvanas' hateful look only intensified. "You will never break me," she declared amidst the anguish and rage within her. "Quel'thalas will never belong to you!"

Kel'thuzad's grin grew even wider. "We shall see, my dear," he murmured, stroking her cheek with a chilling touch. "We shall see if such losses are enough to make you see reason."

Sylvanas felt the chill of the grave in his touch, and she knew in that moment that she would rather die a thousand times than betray her people. She spat in his face. "You'll never get what you want," she vowed. "I will take the secret of the Key to the grave before I give it to you!"

The necromancer wiped away the spittle with the back of his hand. "Then perhaps it's time we find out just how much pain you can endure," he promised her.

With a cruel chuckle, Kel'thuzad strode over to Velonara, whose eyes were wide with fear and anger. He gently caressed her cheek with the back of his hand hand before tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, making her skin crawl. "Now, let's try this again, shall we?" he whispered cruelly. "Now, where is the Key, Lady Sylvanas?"

The dagger was brought to Velonara's throat, pressing just hard enough to leave a thin line of blood.

She was getting desperate. And Kel'thuzad knew when to break her.

Sylvanas, jerked against her chains with renewed vigor. "Take me instead!" she screamed with terror. "Leave them out of this!"

But he was unmoved by her pleas. "As tempting as that offer is, I'm afraid I require the Key, not your life... yet." He leaned closer to Velonara. "But perhaps your friend's cooperation will loosen your tongue."

With a swift and brutal motion, he sliced the dagger across Velonara's throat. The warm spray of blood painted the cell's floor crimson and Sylvanas' watched with a horrified expression as Velonara's lifeless body slumped to the ground.

"VELONARA!", she screamed as she tried to reach the Farstrider's corpse like a wild animal. "YOU BASTARD!"

The necromancer stepped back, looking at the growing puddle of blood. "Such a mess," he remarked with mock disgust. "All I need is one answer to end all this, Lady Sylvanas. Or must I have to make this more difficult than it already is?"

Panic and fear surged through Sylvanas as Kel'thuzad approached the already severely injured Nathanos. "DON'T TOUCH HIM, YOU FILTH!" she painfully screamed . But her desperate pleas fell on deaf ears as the necromancer loomed over them and his hand reached the Ranger-Lord's throat.

With a malicious smirk, Kel'thuzad plunged the dagger into Sylvanas' stomach instead, pushing it downwards with a sickening crunch. She let out a blood-curdling scream as agony consumed her, her body jerking against the unforgiving chains. She looked at Nathanos with agony and she could see the horror and pain reflected in his own when he began to see the amount of blood leaking from her.

The necromancer looked at his weapon as if it were the first time to commit such a horrible crime. "Tell me, Lady Sylvanas...", he began with amusement. "Was there anything amiss with Prince Arthas, by any chance?", he asked of her.

The sudden subject of the Prince of Lordaeron being brought up caught Sylvanas off guard. "What do you mean?", she demanded.

"You see, Lady Sylvanas," Kel'thuzad taunted, wiping the blood from the blade . "Prince Arthas isn't coming to save you. He never was your savior. He was always meant to be the Lich King's champion."

Sylvanas gasped profusely as she tried to hold in the blood gushing from her wound. "Like I'm going to believe any that!" she shot back in anger. "Arthas aided us when no one could! Risk everything to protect Quel'thalas! He's nothing like what you say!"

"Is he not?" Kel'thuzad retorted. "Tell me, then, where is he now? Why hasn't he come to your aid? Perhaps he's already serving his true master," he sneered. "Or he is preparing the Sunwell for my use as we speak.".

"You're wrong," she murmured, trying to convince herself more than him. "Arthas would never..."

Kel'thuzad leaned in close. "If he truly cared for Quel'thalas or for you, he would be here," he whispered. "But he's not, is he?" He stood upright triumphantly. "He's probably already forgotten about you, already slaughtering your people," he sneered, "which means, you are on your own."

Sylvanas's eyes narrowed with determination as she glared at Kel'thuzad through a curtain of pain. "I'll never believe you," she weakly snarled but she remained determined. "He's protecting my people from the likes of you!"

"We shall see, Lady Sylvanas..", Kel'thuzad smirked.

Prince...or anyone..., Sylvanas thought amidst the tears...please hurry!

Close to Sunfall's vicinity...

"Damn it, there's no end in sight!", Halduron uttered in frustration, loosing two arrows to take down a couple of incoming Amani Trolls. He drew his blade, striking down two incoming Blackrock Orcs.

Jaina concentrated her magic to unleash a chain of lightning that took down several armored trolls with ease, with their bodies convulsing uncontrollably before they went limp. Quickly, she summoned two Water Elementals to cover Jenalla and the other three Farstriders supporting them as they continue to rain down fire against their adversaries.

They need to rescue Sylvanas and fast.

Arthas certainly has no patience for these nuisances, but he finds himself fighting against another one of the Blackrock Clan's lapdogs that he remembered as Haomarush.

The orc commander sneered as he dashed and sliced at Arthas who effortlessly parried his swings. "You think you can stop us?" he growled, his longsword swinging in a blur as he lunged forward. "There is no one who could save you from the Legion's wrath!"

Arthas' war hammer met each blow with precision. Haomarush was fast and strong, but the Prince remained calm and determined, intercepting his moves blow from blow.

The two combatants circled each other, their eyes never leaving their opponent's. Haomarush's swings grew wilder, more desperate, as he tried to land a hit on the unyielding prince. Arthas parried and blocked, each move a deliberate counter to the orc's aggression.

The Orc commander charged Arthas with a ferocity that was almost bestial. Arthas stepped aside at the last moment, and as Haomarush stumbled past, he swung his hammer in a wide arc, shattering the orc's sword.

With a snarl, Arthas stepped forward, grabbing the Orc's neck with his right hand. The cold power of his arm surged through his fingers, and Haomarush's eyes bulged as he struggled to breathe.

"See if the Legion will save you from this." With a cruel twist of his hand, the prince froze the very air around the orc's throat, the sound of crackling ice filling the space between them. Haomarush's eyes went wide, his breaths coming in shallow, pained gasps.

All that is in his mind now, was rescuing his greatest victim from his previous life. And he will not allow any more distractions.

The sound of shattering ice resonated through the battlefield as Haomarush's head tumbled to the ground, his lifeless body following suit. Halduron and the Farstriders stared in shock at the gruesome display of power, their eyes wide and their mouths agape.

The Prince raised his war hammer, which augmented by his power, to the sky and slammed it down on the ground. A series of frozen spikes shot up from the ground like a deadly forest, impaling and obliterating the remaining Blackrock Orcs and Amani Trolls that dared stand in their way. The chilling spectacle sent a shiver down the spines of those who watched, having not seeing him this determined and cold when he first arrived to assist them.

Jaina, however, knew why he chose to do so. To use power to protect them, to save Sylvanas. She nodded solemnly at him, showing that she trusted him enough to control himself. "We have to hurry," the Archmage urged. "Sylvanas doesn't have much time."

The small group of the Alliance and Farstriders pushed through the dwindling throngs of the Scourge's minions, driven by fear and hope. They fought through the incoming hostiles, but they had one clear objective: to reach Sylvanas before it was too late.

Back at Sunfall...

With a dark chuckle, Kel'thuzad approached the barely conscious Nathanos, appearing pleased to torment the woman in front of him. "Your prince has abandoned you, Sylvanas," he taunted, his voice echoing through the cell. "It seems your faith is wasted on a man who would leave you to die."

Panic and desperation consumed Sylvanas as she watched Kel'thuzad's hand grasp the back of Nathanos's head, pushing it down against the cold, hard stone floor. "NO! LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU COWARD!" she screamed fearfully and angrily.

Nathanos, his body weak and trembling, managed to look up at her with a smile that seemed to transcend the pain. "Sylvanas," he whispered painfully.

Sylvanas could feel her world crumble all around her.

She had lost her beloved brother, Lirath. And her parents in the previous war.

She had lost Alleria when the latter chose to follow her duty to protect Azeroth, leaving her to fill her shoes.

Quel'thalas is now being invaded and is on the verge of falling because of her neglect and pride.

And now, she was going to watch her most loyal companion, confidante, and beloved. Who had helped her afloat after losing Lirath. Because she refused to give in to the necromancer's lunacy.

Her eyes filled with tears as she struggled against the chains that held her. "N-Nathanos, no...I'm...I"m so sorry," she choked out, even though the words barely audible through her sobs.

"Everything is going to be alright, Sylvanas...", Nathanos gave her a sad, painful smile as he tried to comfort the anguished Ranger-General before him. "Never once, I regret what we have...and what we valued together...and what I have fought for..."

Sylvanas's heart was shattering into a million pieces as she watched the love of her life, the one who had seen the softness she had buried deep within, be so cruelly taken from her.

His smile never faded. "Everything is going to be alright...", he repeated, in spite of the pain he went through.

"N-N-Nath-" she couldn't even get his name out as Kel'thuzad tightened his grip and twisted his neck.

At that moment, everything collapsed for her.

Nathanos's eyes rolled back, and his body went limp. "NOOOO!" Sylvanas's anguished and horrified screams tore through the chamber, a sound that seemed to hold the very essence of her soul. "NOO! NO! NATHANOS!"

Kel'thuzad stood up as he looked down at her with a twisted smile. "See, Lady Sylvanas?" he sneered. "You are all that's left. Your prince, your lover, your friends... all lost because of your defiance."

Sylvanas looked at the lifeless face of Nathanos, her mind unable to accept what had just happened. The last light of hope in her heart flickered and died, leaving only an abyss of grief and anger. She felt the chains cutting into her skin as she pulled against them with all her remaining strength, charging at Kel'thuzad like a wild animal as she desperately tried to reach him. "You will pay for this, you monster!," she screamed. "I'll make you suffer! I'll rip out your decaying heart and shove it into that mouth of yours!"

Kel'thuzad stepped back, his smile never fading. "How very... selfish of you, Lady Sylvanas," he taunted. "You thought more of your revenge than your friends. No wonder they are unfortunately not here anymore.

"You will never break me," she seethed through clenched teeth. "Never."

The coldness of his laugh sent a shiver down her spine. "We shall see," he said. "I assure you, Lady Sylvanas, that I am most...persistent. And I have an eternity to unravel your secrets."

But before he could do so, the door opened.

The next person that Sylvanas saw inflamed her fury more than anyone else. It was Dar'khan Drathir, the traitorous Magister Arthas warned her about and was a friend of Lor'themar's. He almost didn't look like an elf anymore.

His skin took a bluish green tone, stretched tight over his bones, his eyes burned brightly as he sneered at the Ranger-General. Where she neglected to suspect him of disloyalty when she believed him to be loyal. And in his hand, held the Key of the Three Moons. "Supposed that you're looking for this, Kel'thuzad?", Dar'khan mused, which the necromancer gave him a rather unsettling smile. "Lord Tichondrius is impatient of your progress."

"My thanks, Magister.", Kel'thuzad remarked. "It is a welcome relief to see people being... cooperative. Unlike some over here..."

The Ranger-General's anger exploded. "YOU TRAITOR!" Sylvanas hatefully shouted, trying to reach him but her chains held her back. "You have betrayed us all, Dar'khan! You stand with these monsters against your own kin!"

Dar'khan looked at her with a sneer. "Betrayed?" he scoffed. "I have merely chosen the side that holds the true power!" He took a step closer to the shackled Ranger-General with spite. "While you were busy with your pride, the Legion and Lord Tichondrius was showing me true power! Power that makes the Silver Circle and the Kirin Tor look like a child's plaything!"

She did not flinch at this declaration. "You will pay for this!" she roared. "I will see your head on a pike for what you've done!"

Dar'khan's smile grew colder, crueler. "Assuming Silvermoon never falls," he retorted, "which it won't any longer." He leaned closer. "It falls because of your negligence, your pride."

The accusation hit her like a blow to the chest. She struggled against her bond. "Your greed!" she spat back. "Your hunger for power is what brought this upon us! Not my pride, but your treachery!"

"And yet Silvermoon falls because of it!" Dar'khan retorted. "The Legion will not be stopped, not by sentimental values or empty threats!"

Sylvanas felt a tear slip down her cheek feeling the pain of her loss. But she would not give him the satisfaction of breaking her. "We will never bow to the likes of you!" she snarled. "Never!"

"Oh, Sylvanas," Dar'khan laughed. "Always so stubborn. But don't you worry, I would be certain to grant you a place in the new order."

Ignoring her, he turned to Kel'thuzad. "What to do with her, necromancer?" Dar'khan mused, stroking his chin as he gazed upon the shackled and bleeding Sylvanas. "Perhaps it's time we consider making her into a more... cooperative tool."

Kel'thuzad's smile grew wider. "A banshee perhaps," he suggested, seriously thinking about it due to the screaming she had done. "But her spirit... it is too strong, too defiant."

Sylvanas hatefully glared at the two, as her tears of sorrow and pure hatred flowed freely from her eyes."You will both ROT for this!" she spat with anger and despair. "You will both lay..."

The necromancer chuckled darkly. "Ah, Lady Sylvanas," he interrupted. "Your spirit is indeed strong. But it is your pride that will be your downfall." He leaned in close to her hewr. "It is fitting that you should hear the cries of your people as you remain here, helpless and bound."

"YOU WILL BOTH DIE FOR THIS!" Sylvanas shrieked with the last of her dwindling strength. "I swear on the Sunwell, you will all burn! I will not rest until I have torn you apart, piece by rotting piece!" Her curses and threats grew more grotesque with each passing moment.

Tears streamed down her face as she whispered to whatever gods out there, begging for their strength and guidance in the face of such unspeakable evil. She had failed her people, and now she could only watch as the very fabric of her world was torn apart..

Just outside Sunfall...

With renewed urgency, Arthas pushed himself to his feet, the cold steel of Light's Vengeance singing through the air as he led the way that stood between him and Sunfall. Jaina, Halduron, and the Farstriders followed closely, their own weapons cutting a swath through the relentless tide of the damned.

As they approached the fortress, the sight before them was grim. The once-majestic structure stood tall, but it was now marred with the decay of the Scourge's influence. The gates were guarded by a large group of the undead guarding the makeshift Scourge command post.

The group fought through as they dispatched the monsters that barred their path. Arthas' allowed himself to let loose once more, summoning his runeblade where he unleashed several arched slashes towards a group of incoming Scourge, freezing them in place. Jaina's spells sizzled through the air, leaving trails of fire and ice in their wake. Halduron and the Farstriders, driven by their loyalty to their Ranger-General, moved swiftly, their arrows finding their marks with unerring accuracy.

Yet, as they reached lobby, they spotted Kel'thuzad and Dar'khan. Arthas could feel the urge to freeze them into place, and to make them talk. "Kel'thuzad!" he bellowed in hatred, never forgetting what happened back at the Capital City. "Where is Sylvanas?!"

"Hello, my Prince," the necromancer greeted back mockingly. "Unfortunately, your timing is less than ideal." With a wave of his staff, the necromancer sent a barrage of swirling balls of death magic raining down upon them.

The Farstriders were caught of guard, but Arthas and Jaina stood firm, combining their strength to intercept the barrage using a combination of frost magic. Dar'khan sneered, raising the tainted Key of the Three Moons and firing a barrage of Fel-infused fireballs at the group which Arthas quickly countered by forming a wall of ice. "You may have her if you wish, though her life is as worthless as the defense of this kingdom."

The two then vanished in a burst of shadow and arcane energy, to the group's frustration. Time was running out, and they had to push on, to fight through the horde of undead that filled the fortress, and reach Sylvanas before it was too late.

The group took a collective breath, preparing themselves for what was to come. "We have to hurry.", with a nod to Halduron and the Farstriders, they charged into the fortress, ready to face whatever hellish nightmares awaited them within its walls.

The fortress was a walls, once gleaming with elven craftsmanship, were now smeared with the remnants of the dead. The silence was eerie, broken only by the distant cries of the tortured souls echoing through the corridors. They felt the sheer dread as they approached the prison cells, the thought of what they might being a constant thorn in their mind. With every door they forced open, hope dwindled as each cell stood eerily empty.

As broke through the door of the deepest cell, the scene that greeted them would haunt them for the rest of their days. Sylvanas lay on the cold stone floor, her body a canvas of bruises and cuts, form now broken and shackled along with a puddle of blood beneath her from a large wound on her stomach. The sight of her Farstriders, Anya and Velonara, lying lifeless beside her along with Nathanos. The elves who had followed them into the chamber couldn't hold their bile, their stomachs heaving at the sight of their beloved leader's state.

"Sylvanas," Arthas uttered in anguish and regret as he dropped to his knees beside her. The chains around her wrists and ankles were covered with blood from the amount of times she tried to break free herself. "Hold on," he whuspered. "We're here."

Jaina felt like crying to see the her like this. "What have they done to you?" she uttered in sorrow and horror as she tried to assess the extent of the wounds inflicted to her.

"Sylvanas," Arthas called for her again with pain and regret. She didn't deserve this. Not even he went this far with her before. "I am so sorry."

Jaina quickly moved to assist Arthas, casting healing spells as first aid. "Hold on, Sylvanas," she whispered . "We're here now."

Halduron looked over the cell, and he could feel himself being filled with anger and grief. "Death would be a mercy," he sorrowfully remarked as he knelt down to check on her. "After what they've done to them.

The Farstriders looked at the prince and the human sorceress, their own hope rekindling in their hearts. They had seen miracles before, and they were not about to abandon their leader now. With renewed vigor, they set to work, carefully removing the chains and tending to her wounds as best they could.

They could not know why Arthas looked as if he had lost someone so important to him, despite knowing her for a short time. As well as her own attitude to him.

Jaina worked tirelessly, her magic weaving through the air, trying to stabilize Sylvanas's condition. But it was a losing battle she has lost so much blood and it was almost becoming certain she wouldn't make it.

Halduron and the Farstriders looked as if they were about to accept the fact that they have lost their leader through unspeakable horrors, and not at the battlefield as it would've fit her.

However, Arthas not willing to let her go. Because in doing so, would only damn her to a fate of suffering of servitude under the likes of the Scourge.

He had already made her suffer so callously in his previous life. And everything he did, was for her to not suffer such a tragedy again. She had been his greatest victim, and he would not let her go through all that pain again.

The Prince heavily breathed out. He knew the risk he was about to take. But he also knew that he couldn't lose her again, not like this. Summoning every ounce of willpower he had, he focused the energy from his right arm and channeled it into her grievous wound. To be sure, he used it to weave a delicate balance with the warmth of the Holy Light that emanated from his left hand to stabilize her as it flowed through her body.

"Jaina," he called out to her, "Use your fire magic to cauterize the wound. Now!"

Jaina looked at him in horror, then at Sylvanas. But she knew Arthas wouldn't ask for something like this unless it was absolutely necessary. Trembling, she raised her hands and sent a controlled burst of fire over the wound, sealing the gash. The smell of charred flesh filled the air, but it was a small price to pay for her friend's life.

Sylvanas's body convulsed, but the flow of blood slowed to a trickle. Arthas's eyes glowed a faint turqoise as he maintained the freedom and sanctity of her soul. The strain was evident on his face, his muscles tensing with the effort.

"Is it... working?" Halduron asked, hopeful.

"Yes," Arthas managed to say. "But she's not out of danger yet."

Jaina stared at him with fear and wonder. "What have you done?" she whispered.

Arthas looked back at her. "Making sure she survives.", he simply replied.

Sylvanas's breathing grew steadier, and the color began to return to her cheeks. Her vision blurred, and she struggled to focus on the prince's face, her body wracked with pain. "Ar...thas," she managed to croak, hoping this wasn't an illusion manifested by her grief.

He leaned in close. "You're safe," he assured her. "I won't let them have you."

Before she could ask any more, she went unconscious due to the amount of blood she had lost.

Jaina looked at Arthas with wonder and confusion. "What... what have you done?" she lowly asked.

The Prince never looked away from Sylvanas, though he felt exhausted. "What I could do with what I have.", he admitted. "It has touched her, but I promise you, Jaina, her soul, her life, her mind, her body, they are all still hers." He swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving Sylvanas's still form. "I have no control over her."

The Archmage was both relieved and worried, though she still couldn't help but feel it to be a bit unorthodox. "Then we need to get her to safety," she said firmly. "To Silvermoon."

Arthas nodded. "Immediately," he agreed. Without wasting time, Jaina began to conjure a teleportation spell en route to the Quel'dorei capital. "Hold onto her," she instructed Halduron and the Farstriders, her voice shaking slightly. "We're going to get her home."

Back at Silvermoon...

It all went too quick for Falric and the rest that the Amani and the Blackrock Clan have raided Silvermoon, indicating that the Inner El Gate have been opened by the traitorous Magister, Dar'khan. Though they have managed to resist the attack, some of their men died while many others were injured, and that included Falric when he led a vanguard of the 1st Legion in repelling the Orcs and the Trolls alongside the Quel'dorei while Arthas, Jaina and the rest are at Sunfall rescuing Sylvanas.

Right now, he sat on a cot with an open wound on his torso, holding it together with a bloodied rag.

As Falric lay down, trying to catch his breath from the pain from the recent battle, he heard the soft footsteps of someone approaching. He turned his head slightly, expecting one of the healers to come and check on him, but instead, his looked upon High Priestess Liadrin. She looked unmarred by the chaos that had enveloped the city, her eyes filled with a warmth that seemed to radiate from within, and her features bore an expression of genuine compassion. Falric felt a pang of awe, not just for her grace, but for her kindness in the face of the horrors that had unfolded.

She knelt beside his cot, looking at him with a gentle smile. "Captain Falric," she greeted, with a tone that Falric swore sounded like it came from the gods themselves. "Allow me to tend to your wounds."

Without waiting for his consent, she placed her hands over the blood-soaked rag that barely contained the flow from his injury. Falric watched in amazement as the warmth of the Holy Light began to seep into his body, the pain gradually receding with each pulse of energy. The light grew brighter, enveloping his chest in a warm embrace that seemed to mend not just his flesh but his spirit as well.

As she worked, Falric found himself unable to look away from her. Her beauty was not just in her elven features but in the pure compassion that radiated from within her. It was as if she were the very essence of the Sunwell itself, a personification to the power of the Light. "Thank you, High Priestess," he uttered gratefully for her.

Liadrin finished her work, the wound now closed and sealed with the grace of the Light. "Do not thank me," she said kindly said to him with a smile. "It is what I am sworn to do."

The human captain couldn't help but ask, after seeing how weary the other Quel'dorei looked at his fellow compatriots. "I know there are rumors among the elves about humans in Silvermoon," Falric began cautiously for any disapproval . "Do you...are you troubled by it?"

Her face remained calm when a gentle smile player on her lips. "We are not," she assured him. "Our city has faced many hardships for years, and we recognize that in these dark times, we cannot stand divided. The humans of Lordaeron have been our steadfast allies, and without Prince Arthas and his help, many of our kin would have fallen today. Even though...what happened between Quel'thalas and the Alliance might have left a bitter impression in those years have passed."

Falric listened intently. "Those days have long passed, High Priestess.", he reminded her gently. "Even despite the voices of protests amongst the Council, Lordaeron will not see a fellow ally, former or present, to fall into the prey of an enemy that is unforgiving and enslaving as the Scourge."

The High Priestess was taken back at the lengths they went through to help them and was grateful in return. "We have chosen to prioritize our people first and foremost," she admitted. "But we have also seen the folly of isolating ourselves from potential allies. The Scourge did not care for our pride or prejudices. They sought to consume us all." She paused, looking over at Falric. "We have learned the importance of unity, of setting aside our differences to face a common enemy. It is a lesson that I believe Prince Arthas carries with him as well."

Falric nodded slowly. "It's something I believe in strongly," he said. "That together, we can overcome any obstacle, no matter how great it would be."

"Indeed," Liadrin agreed with the same conviction. "The strength of our bonds is what will see us through this dark hour. And it is because of this belief that I am grateful for your presence here, Captain. Alongside with Prince Arthas and the nation of Lordaeron. For your bravery, and for the friendship that has grown between the Quel'dorei and the humans."

Falric felt a warmth spread through his chest at her words. "I am honored, High Priestess," he gratefully uttered. "We will stand side by side until the end. And we will do everything we could for your people."

Liadrin's smile grew. "The Light will guide us," she said, her eyes shining with faith. "And together, we shall prevail."

He managed a weak nod, feeling the warmth of the healing magic still pulsing through him. "Thank you, High Priestess," he murmured. "For your time and for your compassion."

Her smile was warm as she patted his shoulder gently. "Rest now, Captain," she soothingly said. "Your wounds are mended, and your spirit is strong. The Sunwell will watch over you."

The sudden flash of light and the displacement of air was a stark contrast to the serene scene, as Arthas, Jaina, Halduron, and the group of Farstriders appeared in the medical wing. Falric's eyes widened at the sight of his prince, and he struggled to sit up, ignoring the pain that flared in his chest. "Your Highness!" he exclaimed.

Arthas looked around over the room before settling on the High Priestess. "Liadrin," he called out, "we need your help!"

Liadrin rushed over to Sylvanas, eyes widened in horror and worry at the sight of the Ranger-General's condition. The smell of blood and charred flesh was almost overpowering, and she had to fight back a wave of nausea. "What happened?" she asked with urgency and fear.

Jaina looked up at Liadrin, pleading with her to do what she could. "Kel'thuzad and the Scourge," she began with anger and pain. "They had her. They... they did this to her," she gestured at Sylvanas's ravaged body. "They killed Anya, Velonara, and...Nathanos." Falric felt his stomach lurch at the mention of their comrades. "But we managed to save her," she finished. "Barely..."

Liadrin's eyes widened with horror, taking in the extent of the damage done to Sylvanas. "What happened, Your Highness?", she asked the Prince.

Grief and anger filled the Prince as he recounted the events at Sunfall. "We were too late," he said, his jaw clenched. "The Scourge had already claimed the Key of the Three Moons, and Kel'thuzad...he had Sylvanas. We found her just in time, but not before they...before they did this to her."

Falric could see the anguish in his prince's eyes and knew that he was holding it all out for their sake. "I have sent a raven to Lordaeron," Arthas continued. "The navy will be here soon to evacuate the surviving Quel'dorei."

Falric nodded with a frown. "The city was raided by Blackrock Orcs and Amani Trolls," he informed them. "We managed to hold them off, but the damage is extensive. Our forces are spread thin, and we need to prepare for a siege."

Liadrin took in the information, feeling the anger and fear that would come to their city. "We will do everything in our power to aid you," she vowed as she began to immediately heal the rest of Sylvanas' wounds. "But we must also heal our own."

The Prince walked to lean over a nearby wall, before he dropped over to slowly sink and sit, running his face for all that has happened, wondering if history is doomed to repeat itself, only without him leading the charge.

Light, give me strength...

That night...

Anasterian felt like he was at the middle of an overwhelming tide and he could no longer run to reach safety.

With the advancing army heading to the capital city, Anasterian knew he had to rely on his human allies to survive. If not for his kingdom, them his people. But right now, he had to think as to how they should defend Quel'danas next, as he knew Silvermoon will not hold long against the tide of undead, orcs and trolls.

"So are the men stationed at Quel'danas?", Anasterian asked to his Captain of the Royal Guard, Thalorien Dawnseeker, the wielder of the blade, Quel'danar.

"We have, your Majesty.", Thalorien confirmed, feeling uncertain of the future before him but he was determined to carry out his duty regardless. "Protective barriers were also set up to prevent anyone from entering the Sunwell. But given the opponent we are facing, I am not so certain if it will last."

"That is all that we need, Thalorien.", Anasterian assured him. "Prepare the navy to evacuate our people, if we are to keep the hope of Quel'thalas alive."

Thalorien nodded. "I'll have your vessel be prepared in the eve of ensuring your safety, Your Majesty.", he added.

Anasterian shook his head. "I think not, Thalorien. I shall stay and protect the Sunwell. Perhaps Prince Arthas had been right about my mistakes. Perhaps now is the time to put that right."

The Royal Guard captain looked puzzled. "You intend to face the Scourge? To fight with them?", he asked.

Anasterian nodded.

"Would you lead our troops? To reorganize our troops into friendly territory to keep fighting to free Quel'thalas?"

"No," Anasterian shook his head. "I fear that our people would need to abandon our homeland to fight for another day. Even with the assistance of Lordaeron has failed to turn the tide when the odds are against us. I would ensure that our people and our lifeline would live to see another day."

"So what, then?", Thalorien asked in bewilderment, not having seen Anasterian look so defeated and...humbled?

"I wish for our people to trust in our allies, and to not let our pride and fears of the outside dissuade on what truly is the best for our people.", the King remarked, looking over the horizon. "I wish I could have had spoke with Kael, but he is still in Dalaran."

The King straightened himself up, looking over at Thalorien. "Have Grand Magister Salonar and the remaining Magisters support the Alliance expedition with what they need to organize the city's defense.", he ordered. "We need their help to give our people precious time to escape."

Thalorien complied with his orders, bowing before Anasterian. "As you wish, Your Majesty..."

He left the terrace as the King looked over the horizon and thought of the impending twilight of his kingdom. "So this...is how Quel'thalas falls.", Anasterian whispered as he watched his city preparing for the worse. As the Scourge, the Blackrock Orcs, and the Amani Trolls prepare for their assault. He sensed the Prince of Lordaeron approaching him from the side, but didn't look to stare at him. "Have you come to gloat, Prince Arthas?"

Instead the Prince only looked downcast, looking saddened, yet determined to carry out his mission despite Anasterian's reservations.

"No, Your Majesty," Arthas said solemnly, approaching the grieving king. "I am not here to gloat. I am here to offer my deepest condolences and what aid I can." He looked out over the city and feeling his heart heavy with the weight of his own guilt. "While many have been lost, we have managed to save a significant number of your people. The royal navy will be here soon to assist with the evacuation."

Anasterian gave the human Prince a thankful nod. "I know," he whispered. "I have made...oversights. Cutting ourselves off from the Alliance, dismissing your warnings...it was pride, pride that may have doomed us all."

The prince placed a comforting hand on the king's shoulder, feeling pity for the king. "It does not matter now," he pointed out. "What is done is done. We have to focus on the future, on saving what we could still save."

The king looked up at him with a blend of of sadness and regret. "You are right," he admitted. "We must save as many as we can, even if it means we cannot save everything."

He looked back at the horizon, before another question invaded his mind.

"But why do you aid us, Prince Arthas?", Anasterian asked in curiosity. "We have heard news that the heart of Lordaeron have been attacked by the Scourge and the Orcs, leaving your father King Terenas in an incapacitated state. Why do you help us when you have greater obligations? Especially since Quel'thalas left the Alliance to fend for themselves?"

"Because it's not just about politics, Your Majesty," Arthas solemnly. "It's about saving lives. I've seen enough of death and suffering to know that we can't afford to let pride stand in the way of what's right." He paused, looking over the king. "We may have had our differences, but when it comes to the innocents caught in this war, there are no boundaries of race or allegiance."

Anasterian looked to find only sincerity and determination when he initially though he may have other agendas. He nodded slowly, making sense of his words. "You are a good man, Arthas," he commended with a heavy sigh. "Perhaps wiser than I ever gave you credit for."

"With respect, Your Majesty...", Arthas replied. "I only follow what I believe is right for all."

The King looked over the night once more. "I have made...mistakes," Anasterian admitted. "Mistakes that may cost us everything. I should have listened to you, should have seen the threat coming."

"We all have our mistakes, Your Highness," Arthas said gently. "What's important is what we do now."

The two were silent for a moment. They had a shared goal now - to save as much of Quel'Thalas as they could.

"Should we succeed in driving back the Scourge, or should we fail and the city fall," Anasterian spoke with a solemn resolve, "know this, Prince Arthas, the Quel'dorei will forever be in your debt."

Arthas turned to the king, looking weary but determined. "Your Highness, there is no need for debts between allies," he replied firmly. "Our objective is the same: to ensure that the innocents survive this horror."

The king's expression softened, a hint of gratitude shining through the veil of his sorrow. "I understand your sentiment, Arthas," he said. "But should the unthinkable happen, should we find ourselves unable to protect our city, I want you to know that the Sunwell's light will not be extinguished. We will find a way to rise again."

"And when that day comes," Arthas promised with conviction, "Lordaeron will stand beside you. Your people will find refuge in our lands, and together, we will reclaim Quel'thalas."

Anasterian only turned to Arthas, looking impressed as was moved by his dedication to protect his people. He offered him his hand, a gesture that Arthas took a moment to look at before he took it.

And in that moment, they knew they would do everything in their power to save whatever they can still save.

Chapter Text

After much coordination with the remaining Magisters that still live in Silvermoon, Jaina really needed a break.

She had always wanted to visit Silvermoon, but not in times like this when their very civilization is at stake. With Sylvanas in the medical wing and unable to fight, the defense of Silvermoon falls to Grand Magister Salonar and Ranger-Lord Theron, assisted by elements of the 1st Legion.

As she was walking close to Sunfury Spire, Jaina saw Arthas leaning against the spire's entrance, holding the half-empty bottle of elven wine. He looked even more stressed than usual, adding to the fact that his own personal burdens kept stacking up whenever it could. Frostmourne still out there waiting, the loss of Uther, his father is in a critical state, Lordaeron under siege, and now Quel'thalas, just as he was doing whatever he could in his power to prevent the mistakes he had committed before.

And it was enough for Jaina to approach him in order to help him clear his head. "Arthas," she called out softly, not wishing to startle him.

He turned to face her, looking exhausted but remained determined to keep a keen eye. "Jaina," he greeted with a forced smile that fell shortly with a sigh.

"You shouldn't drink too much," she worriedly advised him as she took a seat beside him. "You'll be needing a clear head for tomorrow."

"I know," he replied in a defeated tone, taking a swig from the bottle before passing it to her. "But it's all so...much," he sighed heavily. "Even after we barely got out of Northrend, it felt as if we're trying to hold back a tide that seems unstoppable."

Jaina took the bottle and placed it at her side. "And Sylvanas?" she asked of him.

"Her condition is stable, but..." Arthas began before he trailed off, looking at gloved right hand. "Her hand...it's started to take on a similar hue to my arm," he revealed, feeling the dread building up within as he thought for the elf. "And I cannot surmise as to what would truly happen to her if she's not careful."

Jaina was shocked, and she leaned in closer so people wouldn't hear them. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know," the Prince admitted. "But t's best if we watch her closely as soon as she woke up." He took the bottle back, his hand shaking slightly. "I...don't want her to suffer as before," he uttered in a slightly desperate tone. "As with countless others."

The Archmage's response was to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You've done so much already," she reassured him. "You've already saved countless lives, including hers. I'm sure we can find a way to help her as to whatever curse that may lurk within her."

Arthas couldn't help but be eternally grateful for her unwavering support to him, always reminding himself that he would do the same for her if she needed him. "I hope so, Jaina...", he whispered.

It was silence after that, as both of them dwelled in their own thoughts of the uncertain future ahead of them. Finally, Arthas broke the silence with a heavy sigh. "We need prepare for the defense of the city," he finally spoke. "With Sylvanas unable to lead, The Quel'dorei were disheartened, but we would need their help somehow."

They could hear the Grand Magister and his apprentice Rommath working tirelessly to set up the portal network that would be their only lifeline to the beleaguered cities of Lordaeron. "The've sent word with other kingdoms to request if they're willing to give their people refuge," Jaina informed him. "The Magisters are coordinating with Lord Fordring and Lord Goodwin, as you instructed."

He appeared relieved to hear that, but knew that many of the officials and the nobility weren't particularly enthusiastic to house and take care of numerous elves in a refugee crisis that they're also having right now. "It is a risk, but we can't abandon them to face the Scourge alone."

"I know," Jaina looked over to the numerous High Elf civilians packing whatever they could pack with them. "But what of the their morale?" she asked, turning to face him. "With Sylvanas injured, their faith in their own capabilities is shaken. How would they be able to go on without her?"

Arthas took a deep breath, expressing his fatigue in doing so. "It is a concern," he admitted, his voice gruff with fatigue. "Her strength was theirs too. We need to bring it back somehow, to show them that they can fight on even without her at their side."

"But how?" Jaina wondered aloud. "How do we give them hope when we ourselves are so weary?"

Arthas looked down, taking back the wine bottle and shaking it slightly to see it slosh as if it were reflecting the tremor in his mind. "We fight for them," he said finally. "We stand as an example, to show what it means to never give up, no matter the cost."

The Archmage couldn't help but admire his determination. Even when he was younger, Arthas always strived to protect his people and those who couldn't help himself, as his actions reflected the man he had grew to be.

The two fell silent for a moment, wondering what lies before them. Until Jaina turned to him softly. "Arthas? Do you remember the day we met?", the Prince turned to her earnest and soft demeanor, as he took his time to remember.

"I do.", he affirmed for her with a smile. "It was when you were visiting Lordaeron when you were en route to Dalaran to finally start your studies there. You were praying there in a chapel."

The Archmage felt like her mind go back to those fond memories. "I remember, you offered to escort me to Dalaran that time, and you convinced me to check out one of the Orc internment camps as one of our first ventures together."

Arthas sighed with regret. "I wish I could've picked a more receptive landmark back then.", he lamented with a light snicker. "But we didn't get to see each other again for seven years until I made it into the Silver Hand."

Yes," she whispered with sadness. "That was the day something within me ignited, something that never truly faded even when we were apart." She paused, looking over at the flurry of activity within Silvermoon's streets. "Those seven years were hard," she continued. "But every time I saw you, every time we had a chance to speak, it was as if we had never been apart. What we had grew in secret, even amidst our duties to our respective peoples."

Arthas nodded slowly, the memory of those moments together bringing a bittersweet smile to his lips. "And I," he said, "I made you promise that you'll never deny me" He took a deep breath. "But I ended up hurt you that night at Winter Veil I was a fool to push you away like that, and among other things."

"But Arthas," the Archmage softly interjected, "you were right. Duty called to us, and we had to answer. But there's one thing that hasn't changed, even amidst all that." She took his cold hand in hers, as Arthas worriedly glanced at it. "I never stopped dreaming of the day when we could be together again, not like this," she gestured to their surroundings.

She wondered if this was the first chance he really had to grieve for hjs life in its entirety. Not for the specifics, she must have had chances to grieve already for so much. "Arthas," she began tentatively, her voice barely above a whisper. "When you became...the Lich King, what did you feel for me?"

Almost on impulse, looked away.. "I can't remember," he admitted, feeling as if the cold he had been so familiar with for years coming back to him. "All I knew was the need to expand my power, to conquer, to control. Every emotion was secondary to that driving force."

Jaina took a deep breath, her hand trembling slightly as she reached into Arthas' neck. She pulled out the locket she had given him so long ago as she held it out to him, remembering the memories of him sneaking to Dalaran to spend time with her in secret. "What about this?" she asked.

Arthas took the locket, grimacing for a moment before he calmed. "I kept it," he murmured. "All these years, through everything, it was with me. Even as I donned the helm that made me the person that I once was "

"But why?" Jaina pressed. "Was it out of spite, or...or was it because somewhere deep down, you still cared?"

Did he...did he really cared? Or did he simply disregard its existence because it no longer meant anything to him back then.

The Prince was silent for a long moment, his thumb tracing the outline of the locket. "I don't know," he confessed. "I don't know if I ignored it or if it was a reminder of what I once had."

She kept looking at his visibly pained grimace, but it was clear that he is trying his very best to move on from the monster he once was. The Prince whom Jaina willingly gave her heart to. Who loved her and whom she loved back dearly.

It was there where she asked, the question she had held onto for so long finally escaping her lips. "Do you still love me, Arthas?"

For a moment, Arthas felt his heart stop.

After she knew the truth, Arthas thought she would only stop at being his confidante and close friend willing to help him. "How could I?" he retorted reluctantly. "I tried to kill you back then, Jaina. How can you even ask me that?"

The Archmage could feel her eyes growing misty, but she held his gaze steadfastly. "Because," she whispered, her voice shaking with the intensity of her emotions. "Because even when you were the Lich King, a part of you held back. You could have killed me, but you didn't. I felt it. I know you were in there, fighting."

The locket fell from his hand, clattering against the cobblestones which Jaina immediately picked up. "But I did," he said, his voice breaking. "I tried to destroy you. How can you still believe that any part of me still cared for you?"

She leaned into him, her hand reaching out to cup his cheek. "Because," she began with determination, "I felt it. That spark of humanity that kept you from going on."

If he was to be honest to himself, he wasn't even sure if he would've spared her life. But for her sake, he would choose to go along with her beliefs

"But what if that was just the last vestige of who I was?" he challenged. "What if that spark was just a lie? As a means to get to you "

Jaina leaned in closer. "It wasn't a lie, Arthas," she whispered. "It was the truth. And now, you have the chance to embrace it fully. To become the man I know you are, not the person you fear you could become."

He closed his eyes, her words echoing through his mind. The memories of his past, the pain and the regret, threatened to take over him once more. But he felt the warmth of her hand, the hope in her voice, and it was like a beacon of light in the darkness.

"I want to," he responded earnestly. "But how do I know if that part of me still exists?"

Arthas realized that her lips was brushing against his ear. "You know because you're here with me now," she whispered. "Because you chose to save me, not just because of the curse, but because cared."

Jaina pressed her forehead gently against Arthas', the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the icy chill of his. "You've already changed, Arthas," she declared to him . "You've proven that you already had. You're still the man I fell in love with." Her hand reached up to caress his cheek again. "And I'm here for you," she continued. "I won't let you go through this alone again."

In his heart, he wanted to believe to himself that she is there for him and he truly have. After he had separated from her for so long, and knowing the depths she would go to ensure he wouldn't fall again, he wanted to ask that question. "Is there still a chance for us, Jaina?" he asked in her in a hopeful, whispered tone. "Can we ever find our way back to one another?"

Instantly, Jaina nodded with firm conviction. "Of course there is," she assured him. "We have a chance to rewrite what has happened, to have a new future together."

The weight of his past crimes bore down on him, but her touch melted the cold touch of regret that threatened to coat him once mkre. He leaned into her embrace, feeling the warmth of her love seep into his very bones. "And if I slip again?" he asked her fearfully.

"Then I'll be here to pull you back," she promised. "I won't let you go on your own. We're in this together."

With trembling hands, Arthas reached up to cup her face, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Jaina," he whispered, gathering the strength that he once thought he lost. "You are... everything to me."

Jaina knew that despite the curse that clung to him that served as a reminder of who he was, the man she had once loved was still there. "And you, Arthas," she whispered, "you are everything to me. You are my prince."

He leaned in, their breath mingling in the cold night air. "And you," he began, "you are my queen."

Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss, a promise of warmth and light amidst the encroaching cold. It was a kiss filled with the hope of a new future and the vow to never let go. As they pulled away, their eyes remained to one another, reiterating of the bond they have and the promises they made.

"We'll do this," Jaina declared to him unquestioningly. "We'll save the others and make things right. We're in this together. "As she said those words, her hand was tightening around his.

The former Lich King gave her a hopeful smile. "Together," he echoed, feeling his human heart swelling with hope and love for the woman who had never truly left his side. "To a new future together."

The following day...

The siege was going to begin soon. At least one that didn't involve him leading the besiegers this time.

After much discussion amongst the higher ups with the rest of the surviving command apparatus at Silvermoon, they have decided to try and buy as much time as possible for the civilians to be evacuated via both portals and ships belonging to both the Quel'dorei and that of Lordaeron.

The Sunwell is another objective they have to secure somehow. Though protected by numerous wards and barriers, it won't last long. And Arthas knew it.

Through the morning was eerily normal in Silvermoon, it was the upcoming storm that shook the heartof the Quel'dorei defenders as they prepared for the incoming attack. Arthas and Falric made their way along the battlements, surveying the troops that had gathered in response to the city's distress call.

While the well-disciplined ranks of the Lordaeron 1st Legion stood tall, as they have performed admirably in recent campaigns, the High Elf forces looked disheveled and demoralized, many of them being fresh conscripts. The recent raid by the Orcs and Trolls had taken a toll, and the news of Sylvanas being grievously injured along with the horrors that occured at Sunfall had only added to their despair. Falric looked over at Arthas, hoping they would be able to alleviate their despair. "Your Highness, perhaps you could say something to them? To lift their spirits?"

The Prince took a moment to think before he sighed.. "I doubt my words will hold much sway, Falric," he reluctantly uttered. "But for their sake, I will try."

Ever since coming here, their pride and confidence was replaced by fear and uncertainty, wether or not their livelihoods and their way of life would live on. The incoming tide was filled to the brim with undead, orcs and trolls ready to set Silvermoon ablaze.

Their own fears brought back memories when the Horde first invaded Quel'thalas during the previous war, but in that war, at least they had the chance to rebuild. Same cannot be said if the Scourge triumphed here, however.

Many of them were uncertain if they could trust humans. Quel'thalas had indeed abandoned them during the previous war and many felt as if they are left of their own devices. However, the unexpected arrival of Lordaeron's forces have brought them enough time to stand their ground, and many began to look up to them as comrades who had the choice not to aid them, but chose to do so regardless despite their Kingdom needing every man available to defend them.

Arthas stepped forward where many of the Quel'dorei soldiers looked up at him, hoping that whatever strategy he had in mind will save their very civilization as he did before with Sylvanas. He knew that he needed their help as well so he needed to do something. Falric remained a few steps behind, watching the prince with a silent nod of encouragement and he turned to find Jaina joining them, wondering what Arthas had in mind to address the dispirited elves.

"Warriors of Quel'thalas," Arthas bellowed to the Quel'dorei before him, his tone carrying both compassion and sincerity for their well being. "I know the shadows that cloud your hearts today. The absence Lady Sylvanas, is a heavy burden to bear. But let us not forget what she has shown in the face of adversity despite her mistakes. She has led you through battles that would have broken lesser warriors, all for the very essence of your people: your hope and your freedom."

The High Elves remained silent as they continued to listen to the human prince, some looking away in sorrow, others in anger at the thought of their leader's plight.

Arthas raised his hand, gesturing towards the horizon where the enemy is bound to approach them. "Look out there," he called out to them with such zeal. "You see the Scourge, the Orcs, and the Trolls? They may come with numbers that dwarf our own, and they may come with a momentum that seems unstoppable, but remember this: they can never take away what you hold most dear."

The Slves watched him with rapt attention of hope and defiance. "Their strength lies in their numbers, their momentum in their hate, but our strength," he paused, placing his fist above his chest where the heart is, "our strength lies in our belief that we can rise again." He looked across the growing crowd of Quel'dorei. "It is not just your city, your lands, or your honor that is at stake here, it is the very essence of your people: your hope, your pride, your very existence."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. "Sylvanas, she did not fight for personal gain or glory," he reminded them. "She fought for you, for your children, for your futures. And though she may not be with us right now, her spirit is here," Arthas's voice grew stronger, "her will to survive and to protect her people burns brighter than any of us."

"The Alliance may have had its differences with Quel'thalas in the past," he acknowledged, his eyes meeting the gaze of several skeptical soldiers. "But today, we stand united against a common enemy!"

A murmur of agreement began to spread through the ranks. "Our foes may have brought the storm, but together, we will weather it," Arthas declared, raising his fist in the air. "Let them see what it truly means to be a warrior of Quel'thalas!"

The soldiers roared in response, their spirits visibly lifted. Falric and Jaina watched with pride as Arthas inspired them. The prince had come far from the young man who once sought only to protect his own kingdom; now he stood as a leader for all who faced annihilation.

The High Elves' determination to fight renewed. In their hearts, they felt this human prince who had given everything he could and his message resonated with them. "The enemy advances and you tremble.", he continued. "But Sylvanas never feared them, and neither should you. For what they have in material and in numbers, they lack in conviction and care. But not us. We have discipline. We have order. And most importantly, we have passion. We believe! In what we uphold and all that to which we stand. So maintain vigilance and remember what you all fight for. What made you the proud people that you are: For Quel'thalas!"

The High Elves responded with a fervent "Anar'alah belore!" as they sprang into action, bolstering the city's defenses with renewed vigor. Jaina approached him, her cheeks flushed. "Your father and Uther would be so proud of you," she exclaimed with pride. "Those words...they'll hold them together."

The Prince looked down at Jaina's praiss, in a rare show of modesty. "I hope it's enough," he uttered, being aware of his responsibilities. "But words can only carry us so far."

Jaina nodded understandingly. "They're more than enough for now," she assured him, holding his hand. "Courage and compassion are what truly inspires them. And with you leading them from the front, I believe we stand a chance."

The two of them turned to prepare the 1st Legion for the upcoming battle. They knew that the true test of their resolve would come when the enemy was upon them, but for now, he had given the High Elves a reason to hold their ground.

Halduron and Liadrin observed the scene from a distance, looking at the prince of admiration and hope. "He truly is something special," the Ranger Captain remarked to the High Priestess. "To be able to reach out to them like that, when so many of our own kin are lost..."

Liadrin, looking at the Prince with gratitude, fervently nodded. "The Light has chosen him for a reason," she whispered. "Perhaps it is through his guidance that we will survive this dark hour."

At the Medical Wing...

As Arthas and Jaina entered the medical wing, the soft light and the scent of herbs and potions filled the air, a stark contrast to the harsh reality outside the city walls. They approached the pallet where Sylvanas lay unconscious, where her stomach was sown and healed off the fire magic Jaina had applied to her. After all the torture she has been forced to endure, the two were thankful that at least she still lived.

The Archmage looked at the elf face for any sign of change. "Her hand," she whispered, referring on the grayish tinge. "It's similar as your arm."

Arthas leaned in closer. "It seems I've passed some of my arm's power to her when we managed to heal her," he admitted. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

The Archmage looked up at him in concern and realization. "When you transferred a portion of your power to her to heal her, you must have inadvertently transferred to her," she surmised. "It's a small mercy that it hasn't spread further."

"Mercy?" Arthas repeated. "I wouldn't call it that. This is a something I never wanted her to bear."

Jaina took his hand in hers, her thumb brushing over his knuckles, feeling the warmth that contrasted with the coldness of his right arm. "You did what you had to, Arthas," she said softly. "You saved her life."

"But at what cost?" he lamented with anguish. "When she wakes, she will seek vengeance for her fallen comrades because of Kel'thuzad. I fear what lengths she will go to, what she might become because of this."

The room was silent for a long moment. Then, Jennalla burst through the door with urgency. "Prince Arthas, Lady Jaina," she panted, "we've received word. The Scourge and their allies are approaching the city! We're needed at the front at once!"

Arthas and Jaina looked at one another, realizing that the time is now. The elf's fate was in the hands of the healers now, and their own duty called them to the battlefield.

With one last, lingering look at their comrade, they turned and left the room. "We'll come back for her," Arthas promised with Jaina. "But first, we need to make that there's still a Quel'thalas for her to return to."

The day had come. The civilians are being ferried from the shores of Silvermoon by both High Elf and Lordaeron Navies to safety. While the others frantically began to make their way through several portals conjured by the surviving Magisters.

The defenders stood firm. The Quel'dorei, led by acting Ranger-General Lor'themar Theron, Halduron Brightwing, Grand Magister Belo'vir Salonar stood on one side. The others were the Alliance. Arthas stood as Jaina, Falric, Marwyn and Thassarian waited for the impending siege.

One of the sentries reported back to them. "The undead, the Orcs and the trolls are approaching! What are your orders?"

Arthas gritted his teeth. "A wall of water!" he called out to the gathered mages and Magisters. "Now!"

Belo'vir, Rommath, Jaina and the surviving Magisters Yisanan, Senithir, Ainetu and Cillias stepped forward as they focused their energies to the water bank surrounding Silvermoon. It churned before them, rising up into an immense barrier that stretched as far as the eye could see.

"Now, hold it," Arthas instructed, his right arm glowing with an eerie blue light that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat that dwelled within him. As the wall of water reached its zenith, he focused all his power into it.

The water grew colder, the very air around it turning to ice as the frost spread outward from Arthas's hand. Belo'vir and Rommath exchanged a glance, sensing the dark energy that seemed to be a part of the Prince's magic. It was unlike anything they had ever encountered, a blend of Frost and something far more sinister.

But Jaina, her trust in Arthas unshaken, nodded to them firmly. "We need trust him," she shouted over the roar of the water. "Now is not the time for doubts!"

The wall of water froze solid in a blink of an eye, the waves turning to jagged spears of ice that gleamed in the morning sunlight. The Scourge and their allies approached, and the defenders of Quel'Thalas braced themselves for the impact.

From a distance, Kel'thuzad and Dar'khan watched the sudden obstacle with a sneer, displeased that such an obstacle had been imposed when charging at the weakened city is a task that would have been so simple.

"Breaching the walls would not be so simple...", the necromancer mused. "It reeks of the coldest ice that death itself could only offer."

Dar'khan scoffed. "Just to show how desperate Anasterian and his lapdogs have become.", he remarked. "Are we to attack yet?"

Kel'thuzad raised a hand onto him. "At such instances like this, it would be appropriate if the pawns go first.", he pointed out to the Blackrock Orcs and Amani Trolls with them. Dar'khan only gave a small, ghastly smirk in response, deciding to see how these brainless Orcs and trolls do their job.

Wrathjaw, now with a visible scar over his left eye, bellowed in fury as the towering ice wall thwarted his advance as he searched for a weakness in the frozen barrier. He barked orders to his forces, whose expressions were that of confusion and anger. "Catapults and meat wagons, focus your fire on the center!" he roared, his hand slamming down on the bone-adorned hilt of his broadblade.

The mechanics complied and worked onto the siege weapons, hurling fiery projectiles and groaning masses of diseased flesh and boulders towards the gleaming ice. The wall stood firm, the spells of the elven Magisters and the human mages holding it steadfast against the onslaught. Falric and Marwyn, standing tall beside Arthas, took note of the enemy's response and turned to the human and elven leaders. "We must strike back, now!" he exclaimed.

Lor'themar, watching from the battlements, gave his signal. "Archers and glaive throwers, show them the might of Quel'Thalas!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the chilly night.

In unison, the elven rangers and their own heavy behind the walls stationed along the battlements released their deadly barrage, joined by a volley of mortars from the 1st Legion. Arrows and glaives arced through the air like a meteor shower raining down upon the advancing enemy forces where siege weapons crumpled under the relentless bombardment along with numerous undead ghouls, Blackrock warriors and Amani Trolls getting caught by the barrage.

With a signal, Arthas brought his hammer down on the frozen barricade, opening a section of the wall like the gate that caused several shards to burst onto them. They flew into the air, showering down upon the advancing Scourge and Blackrock forces like a hailstorm. Falric and Marwyn watched in awe as the prince stepped through the frosty breach, looking directly at Wrathjaw where he charged alongside his men.

"For Quel'Thalas! For Lordaeron!" Arthas shouted as he led the counter-attack. Falric and the others followed close behind, their own weapons and spells at the ready.

The Fel Orc's strike met that of Arthas' hammer as they circled with one another. "I will enjoy gutting you like a fish for interfering!", he bellowed, raising his broadblade high.

Arthas didn't bother with a response. Instead, he raised his hand where the fallen ghouls, Orcs and trolls were all resurrected en masse as they charged against the incoming onslaught. Behind them, the Lordaeron footmen and Quel'dorei halberdiers formed an unyielding line behind him, shields interlocking as a formidable barrier.

"Forward, my brethren!" Wrathjaw howled. The Orcs and the trolls charged as the defenders of the city held their ground, fighting tooth and nail against the relentless tide.

Rivendare and Barov closely followed behind with a ghostly calm, looking over at Arthas' with a scowl for humiliating them the last time. "The Lich King will be pleased once he has your soul," Rivendare hissed. "Your suffering will be a fine tune to listen to."

Arthas stepped into the fray as he faced Wrathjaw, Barov, and Rivendare. The Fel Orc Warchief charged at him, broadblade swinging in a wide arc that threatened to cleave the very earth in two. Arthas deftly dodged the blow, the wind of the weapon's passage whipping his hair into a frenzied dance around his face. As the blade bit into the ground, he brought his own weapon that seemed to pulse with an unholy light.

The attack sent shockwaves through the field. They watched in amazement as their prince fought not just one, but three of the most powerful adversaries they had ever faced. Rivendare and Barov, moving with the unnatural coordination of the undead, struck from the shadows, their runeblades leaving trails of dark energy in their wake. Arthas, his movements a blur of speed and precision, parried their strikes, weaving a tapestry of light and frost with each swing of his hammer and of his own unnamed runeblade as he wielded them both. The ground beneath them cracked and froze as the two Death Knights' necromantic power collided with his own.

The Prince slammed the hammer's pommel into Rivendare's chest, sending the Death Knight staggering back. He whirled around to face Barov, the hammer's head morphing into a shard of pure, icy light that pierced the night.

The former noble's laugh was a chilling sound. "You will fall like the Lightbringer had, my Prince!" He swung his sword, the blade leaving a trail of frostbitten air as it sliced towards Arthas's head. "Once they dismantled his body, they will dismantle his soul!"

Angered at the taunts regarding Uther , Arthas sent a blast of holy fire from his fingertips, the flame engulfing Barov's weapon and momentarily halting his advance. The Death Knight looked as Holy Light briefly illuminated Arthas' face.

Meanwhile, on the ramparts above, Jaina, Grand Magister Belo'vir, and Rommath stood together. Their spells intertwined in a dazzling display of arcane mastery. Belo'vir conjured Flarecores that streaked through the sky, each one a fiery beacon of hope that crashed into the Scourge lines, incinerating the unholy beasts that approached and blowing them apart. Rommath, with his own staff, cast spells of pure destruction, summoning several flaming pillars at once that obliterated entire groups of Blackrock Orcs and Amani Trolls upon impact impact.

The human Archmage did the same, summoning several Water Elementals, signalling them to charge against the incoming tide of hostiles where they blasted the horde with a powerful wave of water to soak them. Using this chance, Jaina casted a powerful burst of chain lightning that electrocuted dozens of them, while simultaneously casting frost barriers to cover wounded troops as they retreated back to the walls.

The two elves watched her in awe. "I never knew a human could wield the elements so masterfully," Rommath remarked with a blend of reverence and surprise.

"She is truly something," Belo'vir agreed, a hint of pride in his voice. "It's no wonder why Prince Kael'thas spoke so highly of her in the Kirin Tor."

On the other side of the battlefield, Halduron Brightwing and his squad of Dragonhawks soared gracefully through the air, their fiery breath illuminating the night sky like a series of shooting stars. Each fiery projectile rained down upon the Scourge and their allies, incinerating the undead and sending the orcs and trolls scattering in fear.

Falric, Marwyn, and Thassarian formed an unbreakable line along with their men and the Quel'dorei warriors, Solanar and Koltira among them. heir weapons flashing in the moonlight as they met the relentless Falric's shield bashed into the skull of a snarling ghoul, while Marwyn's sword sliced through the decaying flesh of a Nerubian spider. Thassarian, concentrating his focus, sliced apart the incoming arm of an Abomination, leaping forward to plunge his sword directly at its head, causing it to collapse.

"Hold the line!" Falric bellowed. The 1st Legion of Lordaeron stood firm, their shields up and swords ready. The ground trembled as more and more of the enemy threw themselves against the human-elf coalition. Yet, they stood their ground.

Marwyn, surveyed the battlefield. "We must keep pushing them back!" he called out. "For every step we give, we lose more of our kin to them!"

Thassarian nodded, though visibly exhausted. "We have to buy Silvermoon enough time to get their people to safety," he panted.

It wasn't long before they saw more of the Scourge began to charge onto them. And they prepared themselves in what was to come.

Arthas knew he needed to end this, so reached out with his right arm, and touched the ground. Instantly, the earth before Rivendare and Barov erupted in a maelstrom of ice, trapping the two Death Knights in a prison of frozen spikes.

As the Death Knights struggled to break free from their icy confinement, Arthas turned to the fallen Blackrock and undead warriors. "Rise!" he shouted, and with a wave of his hand, the lifeless forms stirred. The soldiers of Quel'Thalas and Lordaeron watched in fear and amazement as the very soldiers that had threatened them moments ago now turned to aid them, their eyes glowing with a turquoise light that seemed to be at odds with those of the Scourge.

Rommath and Halduron, standing a safe distance behind Arthas with Jaina, exchanged concerned glances as they watched the prince wield this strange power. Halduron, remembering that Dar'khan had used such power to murder so many Magisters, found the courage to speak up. "Prince Aethas, are you... one of them?" he asked, his voice strained with disbelief as he stared at the undead warriors that now served under Arthas's command.

Arthas took a brief moment to look back at them, his own eyes glowing with the power he wielded. "I do not know," he replied honestly, though his tone carried a hint of the same dread that gripped their hearts. "Hard to say, but let's say it's something that we'll talk about another day."

With that, he turned his attention back to Wrathjaw, who had recovered from his initial shock and was now charging towards him with renewed fury. The Warchief's broadblade sizzled with the heat of the demonic fires that fueled his rage, a stark contrast to the cold steel of Arthas's hammer. The two leaders clashed once more, their weapons ringing out in a symphony of rage and desperation.

It was now or never.

With a furious snarl, Arthas focused his gaze on Rivendare and Barov, his clenched fist sending forth a storm of ice spikes that pierced the two Death Knights' armor and impaled them to the ground, immobilizing them in an icy tomb. The power of his cursed arm coalesced around Arthas, the runes on his right arm glowing a menacing blue.

Turning back to the snarling form of Wrathjaw, Arthas watched as the Blackrock Warchief's eyes narrowed with rage at the sudden reversal of fortune. "You think you've won, human?" he sneered, his voice a guttural roar that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath them.

The Prince only remained quiet as he waited for the Warchief's charge against him. He brought his massive, burning broadblade crashing down, aiming for Arthas's unprotected shoulder. With a twirl of his hammer, Arthas parried the blow with his runeblade, the force of the impact sending a shower of sparks into the frigid air. Wrathjaw broke the lock between them, poising for another strike

The prince's eyes narrowed, and with a swift pivot, Arthas brought his own weapon, in a perfect arc to meet the descending weapon. The impact was deafening, sending a shockwave through the ice beneath them that caused the ground to tremble.

In a flash of ice and steel, Arthas's right hand was empty and a frozen war hammer materialized in its place. The spiked head glinted in the moonlight, a promise of retribution. He swung the newfound weapon with a strength that seemed to defy the very fabric of reality, the spiked edge catching Wrathjaw off guard and impaling him through his thick armor. The Blackrock Warchief howled in pain and surprise, his massive body lifting from the ground as Arthas held him aloft.

With a powerful heave, Arthas hurled the Warchief into the air, the impaled weapon tearing through the sky. Wrathjaw, his body a macabre display of impaled flesh and armor, managed a final, furious roar before he crashed onto the jagged edge of an icy spike that had erupted from the ground in response to Arthas's power. The impact was sickening, the sound of armor shattering and bone breaking echoing through the battlefield.

The prince watched as the lifeblood of the Fel Orc Warchief painted the ice beneath him a deep crimson. The formidable Warchief of the Blackrock Clan now lay unmoving, a broken and bloodied mess, surrounded by the frozen shards of his own weapon as he groaned in pain.

For a brief moment, the world felt as if it had stopped turning, as if the very fabric of reality had been torn and then stitched back together in the aftermath of their struggle.

The human Prince's chest heaved with exertion, his eyes a swirling maelstrom of blue and white, the power of the curse pulsing through his veins. "This isn't over yet...", Arthas gasped for air as he looked at the battlefield before him.

To the elves, the sight of Arthas emerging victorious was a morale boost as they fought resolutely with their human and dwarf allies. They had a hero in their darkest hour, and they would follow him to the ends of the world if they asked.

The sudden intrusion of the fiery projectiles shattered the precarious calm, sending shards of ice and earth flying in every direction. The warriors of the Alliance and Quel'dorei looked up to see the terrifying spectacle of massive wings, two large horns sticking out his head, and enormous build that was covered in armor was imposing as the power of green energy of unknown origin.

Tichondrius descended from the skies, followed by the other Nathrezim that Arthas instantly recognized to be Mal'Ganis and Detheroc. The Dreadlord's arrival was like a nightmare made flesh, his eyes burning with the cold malice of the grave as he surveyed the battlefield.

Jaina's eyes grew wide as she took in the sight. "No..." she whispered, in horror as both the Quel'dorei and the Alliance felt their spirits overwhelmed by their presence.

Tichondrius landed on top of the icy wall, followed by Mal'Ganis and Detheroc as he looked over to the Alliance and the Quel'dorei before him with a cold, unwavering glare. "In Archimonde's name...", Tichondrius bellowed menacingly, just as three Frost Wyrms and several Gargoyles flew over the Dreadlords. "let none survive!"

Arthas felt their very presence tighten around his soul. And he knew what they needed to do. "All forces, fall back!" he bellowed with a command that shook the hearts of his men, who never saw this reaction from him. "Fall back to Quel'danas! Now!"

Meanwhile...

Sylvanas awoke with a snarl, as she heard the sound of the cries of battle going through the haze of pain and grief that clouded her mind. She bolted upright, her eyes snapping open to the morning sunlight filtered from the window of the healing chamber. The healers rushed to her side, worried for her condition while her fury that burned within her could not be quenched.

"No,..." she growled through gritted teeth, pushing them away. "I...I have...have to go to them."

"Lady Sylvanas, you are not well enough," one of them protested in deep concern as she tried to dissuade her from leaving by holding her. "Your wounds are severe. You need go rest."

"I will not rest while Kel'thuzad lives!" Sylvanas snarled, with a rage that could have set the very air ablaze. She stumbled to her feet, her legs trembling beneath her. The room spun as she tried to regain her balance, but she would not be denied her vengeance.

Anya's screams of terror.

Velonara's blood flowing from her severed throat.

Nathanos' final, painful moments burned in her mind.

And the mocking, sadistic smirk of that wretched Necromancer as he look down at her with morbid satisfaction.

With a grim determination that belied her weakened state, she began to don her tattered and blood-soaked armor, each movement sending fresh waves of pain shooting through her. "I will not let him win," she whispered to herself. "Not today. Not ever. Not when Quel'thalas still needs me..."

The healers watched her in silence, knowing that words would not sway her. They could only offer their support and their prayers as she stumbled out of the chamber.

The sounds of battle grew louder with each step she took, her ragged breaths echoing through the corridors like the last gasps of a dying world. The smell of smoke and blood grew stronger, and she could almost taste the bitterness of defeat in the air. She looked upon the chaos, seeking the one face that would bring her the solace she craved—the face of the monster who had taken everything from her. She looked at her ashen-gray hand, not even caring what it had become as long as she could still hold anything to take that bastard's life...

"Kel'thuzad," she uttered hatefully, promising of a swift and merciless end. "You will pay for what you've done..."

She will have her vengeance, one way or another.

Chapter Text

Looking over at the map before him, Tirion knew he had to play it safe. Currently, Lord Goodwin and Lady Calia are dealing with the growing amount of Elf refugees arriving through portals, which already overextended their resources to combat a growing refugee crisis. Fortunately, Stormwind under King Varian have began to send in a large amount of supplies from Westfall to alleviate the growing issue of grain, after several of Lordaeron's farmlands have been infected by the plague and many were burned to prevent its spread.

As Tirion continued to analyze the map and feeling the burden of his new responsibilities, he heard the war room's door open. "Saidan.", the Home Guard Commander looked up to greet his fellow compatriot from the Silver Hand. "How fares the order in the front lines?"

The veteran Paladin looked down for a moment, sighing as he took a seat. "We managed to hold off the rest of the Scourge, but unfortunately we have received news of King Thoras' death."

That wasn't good news one bit, as Lady Calia and Tirion had hoped that somehow Stromgarde would rejoin the Alliance at the eve of the Scourge invasion. However, Thoras' wish to exterminate the Orcs following the end of the Second War made it difficult for Tirion to grieve for the man.

What could Eitrigg be doing at these dire times?,Tirion thought for the Orc who had helped him before, and whom Tirion had personally saved though it resulted of his own exile. From what he had gathered, the rampaging Orcs fought under the banner of the Blackrock Clan and he earnestly hoped that Eitrigg is not among them.

"And what of Crown Prince Galen?", the former Paladin inquired. "How does he fare?"

The Lord Commander grimaced though his face turned into a frown at the mention of the man. "Rumors spread that he had a hand in the King's demise. But unfortunately in doing so, the Alteraci Syndicate and the Boulderfist Ogres saw the discord on the Kingdom and have begun attacking Stromgarde proper, and Galen has been sending requests for aid, even though we are still trying to stabilize the fronts that we are dealing with right now, old friend."

Tirion clicked his tongue in mild frustration. "And what of the other fronts in the Tirisfal Glades? In Hillsbrand and Southshore?"

"From recent reports, Highlord Morgraine and his forces are containing the undead back at Southshore.", Saidan gave out his report to Tirion. "General Abbendis and his forces are currently staging counter-attacks against Scourge strongholds at Hillsbrand, but the collateral damage is concerning as they believed that the civilians they encounter are infected while General Garithos have managed to stop the undead and orc advance at Eastweald and recaptured several settlements, but his personal opinions to non-human troops is at risk of alienating our dwarf and elf allies."

The Home Guard Commander hummed in deep thought. So far, so good with minor issues. "Saidan, have Dagren and his contingent to reinforce Highlord Morgraine and his men. Send in Isillien and other priests to deal with the mounting casualties Abbendis and his men would endure. Magroth and Halakh would be sent to oversee General Garithos' progress. I would remain to ensure that the that the flight of the elf refugees of Quel'thalas are treated well alongside Lord Goodwin."

Saidan crossed his arms. "This is what I was worried about when Prince Arthas decided to aid the elves.", he mumbled with a frown.

"King Terenas would not have turned them away.", Tirion reminded him. "We need to ensure their livelihoods are secured, especially since ignoring their plight would mean catastrophic consequences to their very existence."

"But I also suspect this is to make sure that the Elves would not turn to anyone else.", Saidan guessed, which Tirion only sighed, seeing that to be the case as Terenas would have liked for the Elves to remain allied with the Alliance. "I will be heading over at Stratholme to see the Silver Hand's assets be moved to the Capital City, so until then I could only bid you good luck in your new role, Lord Fordring."

Before Saidan left, he turned to Tirion. "Why have you returned?", he asked of him in curiosity. "After all that has happened between you and the Kingdom you have served?"

The Home Guard Commander looked down. "Because of a debt, Saidan.", he told him in reply. "Uther have acted in the name of the Light and with all his honor. As he had done for my family and to prevent my mistakes in tainting their very name."

"Of course you would go that far after that incident with the Orc.", the Lord Commander mumbled. "But why would you go that far for him?"

"A matter of honor, my friend.", Tirion replied, giving him a firm but earnest look. "Would you have done the same for him as well? If you were in my shoes?"

For a moment, Saidan could not have answered his question, instead shaking his head. "I hope for all our sakes, Prince Arthas did not make the mistake of making that appointment. But I am certain that our men would be able to weather the storm before us.", he remarked before he left the room, leaving Tirion to his thoughts as he continued to assess the situation.

Back at Silvermoon...

It was pandemonium within Silvermoon, as the Alliance and the Quel'dorei forces fell back within the city walls where the Scourge, the Blackrock Clan have renewed their advance and are now advancing further. The navies of Lordaeron and Quel'thalas have ferried as much civilians as they could and have sailed en route to the human Kingdom, while civilians scrambled to get through the portals once word reached of the order to fall back was given.

With the wrath of descending snowstorms, the three Frost Wyrms began to wreak havoc on Silvermoon itself, targeting the retreating forces relentlessly as they rampaged through buildings and unleashed blasts of frost magic indiscriminately at the soldiers and civilians below.

For Arthas, he knew that the moment that the Dreadlords themselves intervened, it was a battle they couldn't win but rather they needed to survive

"Falric, Marwyn, Halduron!" Arthas shouted over to them with the two human officers and the Ranger-Captain descending down to come over him. "Make sure the rest of the civilians have safely gone through the portals! Silvermoon is already lost!'

The elder human captain nodded instantly, looking over at the walls that were in risk of being breached by the enemy forces. "As you command, my lord!" Falric turned to his men.

As Falric and Marwyn turned to help ensure the civilians retreated, Arthas looked up with his eyes squinted as he studied the Frost Wyrms, trying to find a way to stop them. The creatures who were prided as one of the finest the Scourge could offer, were powerful, yes, but not invincible.

Facing Tichondrius and his ilk directly would be suicide for their men. So, he called out to Halduron, who was awaiting for whatever instructions the human Prince had inind. "Halduron, get me to one of those beasts!"

The Ranger-Captain was taken back with shock and he hesitated for a brief moment. "What are you planning, Prince Arthas?" he queried cautiously.

The Prince didn't have time for doubts. "I'll buy us time," he simply told him. "Right now, I need you to get me close to one of those Wyrms!"

Halduron looked as if he was asked to jump off the top of Blackrock Spire. "You can't be serious!" He exclaimed in both shock and incredulity.

"It's the only way!" Arthas insisted, looking over as one of the Frost Wyrms unleash a powerful blast of frost energy at Sunfury Spire. "I'll make sure they're dealt with, you have my word."

The Ranger-Captain still couldn't believe what Arthas had asked of him. But at this point, he was open to any suggestions from the human who came to their aid. With a nod, Arthas went to ride the Dragonhawk with Halduron, and they took to the skies.

Halduron's Dragonhawk shuddered as it approached the colossal Frost Wyrm, the beast's frost breath coating the air in a thick mist that stung their eyes and froze the moisture on their skin. "Hold on, Prince Arthas," Halduron yelled as he steered the creature closer to the monstrous dragon's tail.

Arthas nodded, gripping the side of the saddle, looking on the retreating figures of their comrades. "Now!" he shouted, and with a surge of adrenaline, he leaped from the dragonhawk's back, landing nimbly on the tail of the Frost Wyrm. His boots barely had time to touch the cold, scaly flesh before he began his ascent.

The dragon thrashed, sensing the sudden intrusion, but Arthas kept his grip. He climbed up its spine while fighting against the creature's attempts to dislodge him. His right hand reached out, plunging into the dragon's flesh.

While making sure the civilians are going straight into the portals, Jaina looked up, mouth agape as she saw Arthas riding behind one of the Frost Wyrms and she looked to find several Quel'dorei archers taking aim

"Hold your fire!" She ordered the archers, immediately. "The Prince is riding one of those!"

With a grimace and a look of determination, Arthas buried his right fist into the icy scales of the Frost Wyrm, feeling the creature's lifeblood pulse beneath his cold, infected skin. His eyes glowed in a turqoise light as he worked to override the Scourge's control of the creature.

Enough..., he mentally ordered. And follow your new master.

The Frost Wyrm reared its head in protest, but Arthas's will was absolute. With a sickening crunch, the prince felt the creature's essence bend to his command. The dragon's movements grew sluggish as he directed its power, turning the beast into an unwilling slave and weapon of destruction.

Using its veins as a makeshift rein, Arthas steered the beast down as it unleashed a powerful rain of frost against incoming Gargoyles, before he descended down to destroy several Meat Wagons before taking up to the skies.

Falric and Jaina watched in awe as Arthas have managed to take control of the Frost Wyrm, buying the others valuable time to escape.

"What sorcery is this?" one of the Quel'dorei archers whispered to her companion with astonishment.

"Not sorcery," Jaina replied, unleashing a powerful fireball against an incoming Gargoyle before it could swoop in a crying elf child. "Just as what we needed."

Arthas leaned into its neck, mentally giving commands as if to a wild steed. The beast's frosty breath coalesced into a raging blizzard, obliterating all in its path. The Scourge and Blackrock forces scrambled in terror and pain as the prince used the dragon's immense power to freeze them solid, leaving a trail of glittering, blue-tinted ice in its wake.

Liadrin searched frantically through the pandemonium as she called out for Vandellor, who was treating the wounded Quel'dorei warriors and civilians. It was growing desperate as she watched civilians basically causing a stampede through the portals while the navy have left to somewhere safe.

Please...help us in our darkest hour..., she prayed to the Light, trying her best to keep her conviction with it.

Finally, she spotted the elderly High Priest tending to the wounded, his glowing hands mending their injuries. Her heart swelled with pride and love for her mentor, but her stomach twisted with dread at the sight of the approaching danger.

"Vandellor!" she screamed, pushing through the throng of fleeing soldiers and civilians. "You have to come with us! We have to leave this place!"

The old priest looked up, his eyes weary but resolute. "I cannot, my child," he called back, though it was clear that he was growing exhausted. "There are too many who still needed aid."

"But you can't stay!" Liadrin pleaded, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "The city will fall, and we will all be lost!"

Vandellor's expression was one of sorrowful resignation. "I am at peace with my fate, my child," he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You have to go, I will not have you throw your life away for an old man."

Before Liadrin could argue further, an invisible force ripped Vandellor from her grasp, sending him hurtling through the air. She watched in horror as a demonic fist pierced through the the High Priest's chest, killing him almost instantly as he painfully looked at the woman of whom he raised like his own daughter before his eyes went blank.

"VANDELLOR!", she screamed in terror as she fell to her knees, helpless as she looked to find a creature as if it were manifested from their worst nightmares. His twin horns, massive wings, and obese build made him stand out amongst the creatures that have stormed Quel'thalas.

Detheroc merely chuckled with sadistic pleasure as he looked at the fallen High Priest then to Liadrin. "Another insignificant elf," he sneered. "Hardly worth the effort of crushing beneath our heel."

Liadrin felt a rage boiling within her, with hatred that did not befit a High Priestess. "You will pay for this," she growled tearfully as she struggled to stand.

A powerful blast of Fel energy erupted from Detheroc's hand aimed at Liadrin, but a powerful arcane barrier nullified the attack before Detheroc looked up to find a barrage of arcane bolts raining down on him. The Dreadlord countered by unleashing a carrion swarm, destroying the incoming projectiles as well as his own.

Belo'vir, reeling with the loss of his close friend, stepped protectively in front of Liadrin, looking at the Dreadlord with contempt as arcane energy coalesced around his hand. "Go, Liadrin." he said firmly. "Make sure our people live to see another day.

The High Priestess looked at him to find a mirror of her own pain and anger reflected there. Still, she couldn't abandon her mentor without exacting some form of vengeance. She drew her staff with trembling hands, the light of the Holy Light emanating from it. "No," she said, her voice shaking. "Vandellor is dead because of him. I will not leave without taking a piece of his foul soul with me."

Belo'vir nodded solemnly, understanding her need. "Very well, then.", he remarked in resignation. "For Vandellor."

Detheroc's grin grew wider as he took a step toward them. "How touching," he taunted. "Shall we?"

The two remaining Frost Wyrms turned to Arthas. Seeing his chance, Arthas leaped from the back of his commandeered beast with surprising agility towards the other Wyrm.

He hovered in the air for a brief moment, the Holy Light enveloping Light's Vengeance and augmenting its power over it. He brought. the hammer down onto the skull of the nearest Frost Wyrm, cracking it open like an eggshell. The creature let out an unearthly screech before falling into one of Silvermoon's many buildings before his stolen mount swooped in time to let him land behind its back.

The Prince saw the other beast barreled towards them, jaws agape. "Lor'themar! Now!" he shouted to the Ranger-Lord below him.

The Ranger-Lord took this into stride as he directed the Quel'dorei Glaive Throwers. "Aim for the core!"

The elven soldiers complied as they took aim at the Frost Wyrm that Arthas had brought down with a tackle from his own. The glaives shot forth, their trajectory true, piercing the thick scales and striking the creature's core, which had been laid bare by the tussle. The first few glaives bounced off the ice-covered flesh without effect, but as the second volley hit, there was a flash of light and an explosion of frost. The Frost Wyrm shrieked in agony as the holy power within the glaives melted the very essence of the beast, reducing it to a pile of shattered ice and lifeless flesh.

"Good shot!", Arthas shouted as he held onto the bucking form of the Frost Wyrm beneath him. The creature's movements grew weaker with each passing moment, its power waning under the prince's relentless control.

Tichondrius, watching the battle unfold from his vantage point atop the icy ramparts of Silvermoon found himself annoyed at the audacious display given by Ner'zhul's former chosen.

Unleashing a torrent of Fel-infused flames, he aimed directly at the prince and his stolen mount. The dragon roared in pain as the fire enveloped it, and Arthas was thrown from its back, plummeting towards the ground. In a flash of icy blue, he concentrated the power of his corrupted arm, waving at the ground below him. The concrete before him erupted into a frozen ramp, and he slid down it safely as he regained his bearings.

As he reached the bottom, Jaina was there, rushing over him with several of their men from the 1st Legion. "Arthas, are you alright?"

He nodded, panting heavily. "I am, Jaina...", he assured her, looking over to the diminishing numbers or civilians fleeing the city through the portals. "We have to get to Quel'danas as soon as possible and make sure the Sunwell doesn't fall."

The Archmage looked to find the ships of both the High Elves and of Lordaeron departing from Quel'thalas and to the decreasing number of civilians escaping the carnage. "But what about the people still here?" she pointed out in concern.

"Halduron and the remaining Dragonhawks will cover the fleet from any aerial incursion.", the Prince added, a task that Halduron quickly accepted. "He'll make sure the ships get to Lordaeron."

Lor'themar looked at Arthas. "And what of you?"

"We have to make sure Anasterian and his men would be able to seal of the Sunwell in any way we can.", he further added, and the Ranger-Lord and several warriors came forward to offer their help. Arthas then turned to Magister Cillias, who had arrived on horseback. "Take us to Quel'danas," he ordered. "Now."

The Magister nodded, and with a gesture of his staff, the air around them shimmered. The group disappeared in a burst of light, leaving the battlefield and the bewildered Halduron behind. The Ranger-Captain watched them go, then turned his attention to the fleeing ships where he directed his Dragonhawk over to them along with several surviving riders.

"Falric, gather what remained of our men and the Farstriders and protect the civilians Thay still remained," Arthas called out as they vanished. "We'll meet you back at Blackwood."

The captain of the guard nodded. "May the light guide you," he murmured, before turning to address his troops. "Protect the exodus! For the Alliance and for Quel'thalas!"

Meanwhile at Quel'danas...

Within the sacred grove of Quel'danas, Anasterian and Thalorien sliced through numerous Ghouls and undead seamlessly. Felo'melorn and Quel'danar fought through groups of undead that have managed to breach through Archonsius, engaging the garrison that had been stationed there. Despite his age Anasterian fought resolutely though his movements were a bit sluggish compared to Thalorien, who fought with every inch of his fibre with considerable agility and movement.

"Your Majesty...", the Royal Guard Captain panted as he sliced apart an undead High Elf's head mournfully. "How did they managed to breach through Archonsius? Isn't it supposed to be accessible to only a scant few?"

Anasterian supported himself with Felo'melorn, exhausted. "I do not know, Thalorien.", he admitted but he could still hear the incoming footsteps and gutteral groans of the undead. "All that we could do now, is to make sure the Sunwell remains protected..."

As they awaited whatever comes at them, they heard incoming footsteps from a single man. And the two's fury were immediately directed at him when they realized as to who this was.

Dar'khan, the wretched betrayer. His ghastly features greatly contrasted his once elegant frame, and his eyes were glowing in a sickly light and unfamiliar green flames wrapped around his fist like a child showing off a new toy before them. "Your Majesty.", Dar'khan greeted with a smirk. "May I humbly request the Sunwell's use for a few friends?"

The King's grip onto Felo'melorn tightened, forcing himself to gather whatever strength he could against him. "Traitor..." Anasterian spat at the traitorous Magister. "You traded your own homeland for your ambition..."

Dar'khan merely smirked in response, waving his Fel-augmented hand as a show of his ego. "The times have changed, my lord," he retorted. "And so have I."

Thalorien furiously pointed Quel'danar to the turncoat. "How did you and your newfound ilk breach through the enchantments protecting Quel'danas?"

"Your wards meant nothing to us," Dar'khan cackled, as several undead Quel'dorei flanked him. "Lord Tichondrius' gift made it a simple task to bypass even the most complicated enchantments the convocation had to offer!"

Anasterian and Thalorien were furious but they had no time for grief or anger. They had to protect the Sunwell at all costs if their people are to survive. "Your treachery will not go unanswered, Dar'khan." the King snarled, raising Felo'melorn as the runeblade's power began to manifest at the traitor.

But before they could lunge right at him, a new presence intervened. Mal'Ganis had appeared in a swirl of carrions, standing in front of Dar'khan, looking frustrated and annoyed at making sure the elf succeeds.. "We have need of it.,", he declared menacingly. "And in return, we shall grant you a... different fate."

Thalorien gritted his teeth at the Dreadlord, but he could feel the doubt and fear that is festering within him. "Not in this, or any other lifetime!"

Anasterian stepped beside his loyal guard. "We will not hand over our people's very essence to you, demon!"

The Dreadlord's glare onto them only intensified. "Then so be it."

Screams of agony, unforgiving explosions, the sound of blood-curling cries of the Scourge and their allies are all that Sylvanas could hear as she stumbled out of the medical wing.

She could hear surviving Magisters and human officers leading the remaining civilians into the portals into safety. Other support and auxiliary staff had also joined in along with the wounded to the exodus.

But the Ranger-General has no intention fleeing her homeland. Where all she could think of, is getting that monster's head on a pike after what had happened at Sunfall.

Silvermoon was already being torn apart by the relentless onslaught of the Scourge, orcs and trolls. Sylvanas knew that she was in nowhere in fighting shape, but she didn't care. With a furious snarl, she broke into a sprint despite her unhealed wounds, her legs moving on instinct alone.

Her thoughts were like a never ending whirlwind of anger and despair that weighted in her failure to act.

Alleria and Lireesa have gave it their all to protect Quel'thalas, and she will not fail her duty as a a leader. Despite the failures that she had a hand in causing.

Buildings were being burned routinely by advancing Orcs and trolls along with acts of pillaging, corpses being resurrected by the Scourge. She saw her warriors fighting desperately to protect their people, despite the fear from what she saw in their very eyes. The sight filled her with a fierce pride, but also with a burning anger that had already overtaken her logical reasoning.

All Sylvanas could see was a world tainted red, as if manifested by the pain, sorrow, rage and determination that the necromancer brought out to her with that sadistic grin of his.

"Where are you!?" she screamed into the fray amidst the destruction, her voice lost among the chaos of battle. "FACE ME, COWARD!"

Each moment that had passed was a battle against her own weakness as she searched for the necromancer. The city she had sworn to protect was crumbling before her eyes, and she could not bear the thought of letting it fall without taking her vengeance.

"Shindu fallah na! (They have broken through!) The Orcs and the Trolls are advancing!"

"Minn'da! (Mama!) Minn'da! (Mama!)"

"Fall back! Fall back!"

"Silvermoon is lost!"

Every word she had heard was a direct punch to her gut, proving it to be more hurtful than any battlefield wound as her negligence came back to haunt her back.

None of this could have happened if she had listened.

And now, her people are paying the price for her mistakes.

Each step she took as she ran had sent jolts of agony through her injured form, but she pushed on, driven by the fierce need to avenge her people. The streets are littered with the lifeless forms of elves and humans alike. The cries of the dying and the moans of the undead melded into a cocktail of despair that filled her ears and fueled her anger.

The once-beautiful spires of her city lay in ruins, their gleaming surfaces marred by the dark stains of corruption. The vibrant gardens were now a desolate wasteland of frost and decay. She fell upon the crumpled form of a young elf, his quiver empty, his bow broken beside him. His name was forgotten in the chaos, but the sight of his youthful face, forever marred by the horrors of war, brought a tear to her eye.

"I won't let this go unanswered," she uttered in determination, grunting in pain of feeling the internal wound to her stomach while looking at her oddly colored ashen-gray hand. "They will all pay for this..."

Sylvanas pushed through the crown of soldiers and civilians. Despite the chaos and horror that surrounded her, she remained focused on her singular goal. All that she felt were of anger and sorrow, each step she took fueled by the pain of her grief and the promise of vengeance.

"Kel'thuzad," she hissed through gritted teeth with desperation. "Anya...Velonara...Nathanos..."

The Scourge, Amani and Blackrock forces grew dense.. The stench of their rotting flesh filled her nostrils, but she would not be deterred. Every orc, every troll, was an obstacle standing between her and the one she sought. With only a dagger as her weapon as she is yet to find a more suitable weapon, she managed to evade an incoming blow of an axe from a troll before she whirled and slit his throat open. A Blackrock warrior charged after her, only for Sylvanas to jump out of the way and plunge the weapon onto his head.

"Where is he!?" she screamed in rage and despair as the memories of Sunfall came flashing back within her mind's eye. "Where is that monster!?"

The area around her grew more and more chaotic with the the clang of steel against steel, the sickening crunch of bone, and the anguished cries of the dying. Yet amidst the chaos, she heard the faintest echo of a laugh—a laugh that sent a shiver down her spine and ignited a fire in her soul.

She finally found Captain Marwyn, one of Arthas' chief officers as he directed the remaining Quel'dorei civilians and wounded soldiers through the portals to Lordaeron. She locked onto him like a hawk spotting its prey, and she staggered through the carnage-strewn streets of Silvermoon, stumbling momentarily through the pain but managing to get back to her feet moments later.

The younger Captain was shocked as Sylvanas stumbled towards him, her armor in tatters and her eyes burning with a fury that seemed to set the very air around her alight. "Lady Windrunner!" he exclaimed, rushing over her to help her up. "What are you doing here?"

Sylvanas' hand shot out like a whip, her fingers digging into the fabric of his collar and yanking him closer. "Where is he?" she snarled, her teeth bared. "Where is Kel'thuzad?"

Marwyn was taken back at the sudden hostile action, but he managed to come up with a response. "I...I don't know but the prince and the others are in Quel'danas," he managed to get out. "They're trying to stop Kel'thuzad from going to the Sunwell."

The Ranger-General's grip tightened, her knuckles white with rage. "Take me to them," she ordered, her voice a low growl. "Now."

Marwyn tried to protest, looking down to the grievous wounds that marred her body. "My lady, you're not in any condition to fight," he protested. "You need rest, healing."

Sylvanas' eyes narrowed to slits, and she shoved him away from her and to his men. "I do not need your pity, human," she spat. "I need to make him pay for what he's done to my people!"

Marwyn took a step back, as Thassarian helped him up with Koltira. "And what of your people here?" he countered. "Do you intend to leave them to die?"

For a moment, Sylvanas seemed to waver, the weight of her losses crashing down upon her. Then, with a snarl, she straightened, her gaze never leaving Marwyn's. "I will not abandon them," she said through clenched teeth. "But I will not let Kel'thuzad live to see another sunrise."

"But you're going get yourself killed out there!", Marwyn protested but she kept going as if she didn't hear him.

With that, she turned and stormed off. Marwyn watched her go, his jaw set in a tight line. He knew he couldn't force her to stay, but he also knew the madness of grief could drive her to her doom. "May the Light guide your aim," he uttered before turning back to his own duties, and hoped that she wouldn't do anything reckless to herself and potentially her people.

Sylvanas stepped over the countless bodies, her every breath a battle cry. She had lost so much, and she was not about to let Kel'thuzad win. She would see him dead, even if it meant her own end.

Her thoughts raced as she staggered through the chaos. Anya's pleading eyes, Velonara's lifeless gaze, Nathanos' finaloments and the echo of Kel'thuzad's taunts fueled her steps. Her mind was filled of rage and pain, but one thing remained clear: Kel'thuzad would pay for the suffering he had brought upon her and her people.

And then, she saw it. The crumpled form of Magister Ainetu lay on the ground, a teleportation scroll clutched in his cold, lifeless hand. With trembling fingers, she pried it from his grip.

With trembling hands, Sylvanas unfurled the scroll, the arcane symbols dancing before her eyes. She had never used such magic before, but the desperation within her lent her strength and the scroll crackled with power, and a moment later, she was enveloped in a cocoon of swirling light, the world around her blurring into oblivion.

When the light dissipated, she found herself in the heart of Quel'danas, the very isle where the Sunwell is located. The sight that greeted her was one of unimaginable horror. The once-verdant lands were now scarred by the frost of the Scourge's touch. The ground was stained with the crimson of elven blood, and the lifeless bodies of her kin were scattered like broken dolls with beautiful forms now twisted and broken.

"Kel'thuzad," she hissed, looking the horizon for any sign of the necromancer. Her thoughts were a blend of anger and despair, but she would not let them cloud her focus. Revenge was all she had left.

Several Ghouls and undead Quel'dorei came charging at her, but all she saw in them are obstacles. Sylvanas moved with a predatory grace, her bow singing a deadly tune as she took aim at the rotting figures that approached her. Her every shot found its mark, and with each one that fell, she grew closer to her target.

Meanwhile...

"Come on! We have to move now!", Arthas barked out, running over the numerous corpses of undead and Quel'dorei warriors as they followed the trail of slaughter deeper into the Sunwell. He, Jaina, Lor'themar and several High Elf warriors continued their sprint to find King Anasterian and the Royal Guard defending the Sunwell. The group entered the building, down a curved staircase littered with elven and undead bodies, passed through a thin red curtain, and into the wide open room containing the Sunwell itself...

The room was nothing short of a slaughter house, hordes of elven bodies scattered everywhere, a literal ring of fallen corpses surrounding the glowing font of power. Before they entered the room, the door burst open to reveal the broken body of Thalorien Dawnseeker, motionless and unmoving.

They turned to find Anasterian struggling to hold his ground against the horrifyingly fast assaults of Mal'Ganis with his Fel-infused claws before managed to rip out Felo'melorn from his grasp and slashed across the aging King's torso.

"YOUR MAJESTY!", Lor'themar roared in terror and anger as he and his men began their charge at the Dreadlord. However, Dar'khan acted swiftly, unleashing a torrent of chain lightning that immobilized and wounded the Ranger-Lord and his men.

"Don't be so hasty, old friend.", Dar'khan mockingly cautioned. "I wouldn't want you to ruin the main event."

Standing in the center of the font, was Kel'Thuzad, holding his staff on one hand and holding a dagger to another, looking at Arthas with a sneer. "Hello, my Prince! How well is your father?", he mocked. "Terribly sorry at how the trial went. Pure coincidence, I assure you."

The human Prince stiffened in anger but a grip on his arm from Jaina staved off it off for now. "I should have killed you at Andorhal when I had the chance...", Arthas seethed out resentment.

"And miss the rebirth of a new order?", the necromancer sneered. "I think not but I believe we have more important matters to deal with than an aged old fool who became the very epitome of elven arrogance and thought himself better than all."

The Archmage raised her staff in anger, preparing to blast Kel'thuzad with a well-timed fireball but Arthas stopped her. "Don't. If we kill him now, the sooner we're getting an ArchLich.", he cautioned her, which Jaina looked dismayed as they needed to get him out of the Sunwell at once, while also looking over at Dar'khan and Mal'Ganis.

"But what could we do, Arthas?", she asked him, desperate for an answer.

"I'll stall him, and see if you can try and discreetly summon a water elemental without alerting him.", Arthas told her.

Lor'themar tensed, coming to a halt before changing focus, rushing to and kneeling next to his King who was clutching the massive wound that the Dreadlord gave him.

"I suggest you leave, Ranger-Lord," Kel'thuzad remarked. "If you still value the life of your King. A shame Prince Kael'thas hasn't arrived yet. He would've loved to see this, as one scholar to another."

Jaina and Arthas looked at one another, fearing that Kael would have to go through everything that happened to him in the previous timeline.

The Prince strapped Light's Vengeance behind his back, summoning his runeblade as he pointed it at Kel'thuzad. "Step out of the Sunwell and we'll settle this between us."

Kel'Thuzad smiled, comfortably swaying a little, letting his robes send ripples through the empowered water. "I'm afraid not, you see I'm rather comfortable here. I have been receiving rather...unkind messages from the Lich King himself.

Arthas' eyes narrowed at the mention of Ner'zhul. "And what does he want now?", he asked with a snarl.

"He still awaits his champion, my Prince.", Kel'thuzad informed him, which caught Lor'themar and the surviving elves off guard while Jaina moved closer to Arthas protectively. "It would have been a shame to have those talents of yours come to waste. He had already foreseen the fall of the Eastern Kingdoms to the very master he serves. And would you waste the opportunity to save your people?"

"Ner'zhul is many things...", Arthas began. "And a false prophet is certainly one of them. He may claim to see the future, but all he does is send his own underlings to do his work and claim that it was written all the same."

The necromancer's eyes narrowed. "Tell me, my Prince...", he began slowly, tapping his staff onto the enchanted waters of the Sunwell. "Has everything that happened all the worth saving the lives you were meant to take?"

"After seeing what kind of schemes you and the Scourge are planning? Then yes.", Arthas spat. "And the Scourge became desperate enough to seek the aid of trolls and orcs alike when it was clear that none of you could get to Lordaeron or any other Kingdom by yourselves.'

Kel'thuzad's expression grew to a frown. "The Lich King has expected you to take the blade and become his very champion. And he still considers you as such if you wish to obtain the power that would protect your people."

"I already have the power to protect them from the likes of you.", Arthas shot back.

He smiled wryly. "Well, after you displayed a public and uncanny knowledge about the Scourge and our plans, the Lich King grew rather curious you see."

Jaina tensed, a sinking sensation in her stomach. "From what it seems, it looked as if you knew the very script of the play that our plans have foretold. As if you have known all of it. Andorhal, Stratholme, Northrend. And now, Quel'thalas.", he pointed out which caused Arthas and Jaina's blood to freeze, seeing that Kel'thuzad may have an idea as to what is going on.

"Is there something you're not telling us, my Prince?", he further queried in curiosity.

The Prince remained calm. "If there is, who is going to believe that?", he challenged. "You may claim many things, Kel'thuzad. But whatever merit you may carry won't do you any good at these circumstances."

Kel'thuzad looked over at Jaina. "Jaina, my dear. Do you perhaps know anything unusual about him?"

Of course, she's not going to give him that satisfaction. "Don't call me 'dear', Kel'thuzad," spat the Archmage, "You would say anything to turn people against each other. Antonidas made a mistake transferring you to Lordaeron."

"Hmm, a lost opportunity for you," said Kel'Thuzad.

"Can you reverse teleport him?" Lor'themar inquired as soft as he could, they needed him dead, before he ruined everything.

"I'm not sure," Jaina reluctantly answered, "He's tapped into the Sunwell directly, he could counter any spell we cast. But we need to stall him a bit longer before we could be able to restrain him."

Arthas nodded at the Archmage, deciding to further humor him. "What else are you planning to do, Kel'thuzad? Without a champion, is Ner'zhul a permanent lapdog to the Burning Legion, now?"

Kel'thuzad rubbed the blade of the dagger on his chin. "Hmm...", the necromancer pondered. "He has several candidates in mind. Though Lord Uther have been quite the promising candidate."

Arthas felt his blood freeze at mention of Uther while Jaina looked horrified at think what they were going to do to him. "What do you know of Uther? What are they doing to him?"

The Necromancer smirked at him. "Improvements. From what the Lich King and Lord Tichondrius have told me."

"What kind of improvements?", Arthas pressed on angrily. "What are they doing to Uther?"

That very day during the attack on the capital. The day he sent Uther to the dungeons to secure Kel'thuzad, only for him to run into Tichondrius that ended with his defeat and capture, leading him to assume the very worse on what would happen.

A chuckle escaped Kel'thuzad's lips. "Balnazzar and Varimathras had quite the time with him. They broke him down, piece by piece," he remarked with sadistic. "Body first, then the mind. When that was gone," his expression grew more malicious, "they went for his soul. He has such a strong spirit, but it could only get him so far..'"

Arthas's grip on his runeblade tightened, wanting to freeze Kel'thuzad from where he stood but he had to control himself. "What do you mean 'improvements'?" .

"Why, they're making him into what you could never be," Kel'thuzad answered him. "A fine weapon of the Scourge. They're rebuilding him, twisting what remains into something so vile, so powerful, that even Tichondrius is impressed. Although, Ner'zhul found him better to be the very hand that would forge his eventual champion."

The humans' expressions turned into an ugly grimace. The horror of what they were doing to Uther, a man they called a friend and mentor, filled him with a cold fury that surged through his very bones. "What are they turning him into?" he demanded venomously

Kel'thuzad took a few steps further on the Sunwell's waters. "You'll learn," he whispered. "But he is a perfect blend of purity and decay."

The Prince knew Kel'thuzad is trying to provoke him into delivering the final blow, and he had to keep himself from doing anything reckless.

Arthas knew all too well the fate of a Death Knight, the endless cycle of servitude to the Lich King, the loss of self. And now, it was happening to Uther. "You will tell me where he is," he further demanded just as Jaina began to discreetly summon the Water Elemental behind Kel'thuzad.

"You don't have to, my Prince...", the former Kirin Tor assured him. "He will come to you...in time...although Lady Windrunner is also an interesting case...

Arthas and Jaina stiffened, remembering the gruesome deaths of Anya, Velonara and Nathanos by his very hands as he tried to break Sylvanas' back at Sunfall. "What do you mean?", Jaina demanded.

The necromancer cackled. "Her screams was music to my ears, truly. Such a pity she had to die, but her fear was... utterly entertaining."

As Sylvanas stumbled across the bloody corridors, she immediately knew that was Anya as whom he is describing of, which only fueled her anger even further.

Kel'thuzad took a moment to savor the thought, relishing the pain he knew his words were causing Arthas and Jaina. "And her loyal followers, they died like the animals they were."

His gaze shifted to Jaina, who had gone pale at the mere mention of the bodies they found at Sunfall. "The way the young one's blood spurted out, painting the floor a lovely shade of crimson. And the Ranger-Lord," he chuckled darkly, "His touching words were quite the performance. But the best was the love-struck one," Kel'thuzad's voice grew softer, more sinister, "his neck snapped with such... elegance. It was a sight to behold, really."

Lor'themar was horrified, as he now knew the extent as to what had happened back at Sunfall and hearing it further from the enemy made his stomach hurl.

With a growl and his patience ended, Arthas shouted. "Jaina, now!"

Kel'thuzad didn't have time to react as the Water Elemental managed to constrict Kel'thuzad's arms, dropping both his staff and his dagger as it tried to restrain him. Dar'khan was about to move in to assist him, but a hand from Mal'Ganis stopped him, sensing a presence nearby.

Kel'thuzad cackled. "Be my guest, my friends!", he egged them on. "Death is only but a stage to transcendence!"

Sylvanas couldn't take it anymore.

All those memories. His taunts. The screams. Their final moments. All coming back to her like a ghost as she felt her own mind no longer in control from the hurricane of emotions.

Anya, Velonara and Nathanos' final moments etched into her mind which only fueled the adrenaline of despair and rage within her as she burst into the chamber.

Arthas quickly turned to find Sylvanas bringing her bow to bear, as did Jaina as she saw the injured Ranger-General coming to the fray and her face that contained rage, despair, grief, sorrow and vengeance. "SYLVANAS, NO!", the Prince shouted out for her, rushing at her to stop her from killing Kel'thuzad.

With a roar fueled by rage and loss, Sylvanas emerged from the chaos, her bowstring thrumming as she released an arrow that streaked through the air, aimed straight for Kel'thuzad's heart.

"KEL'THUZAD!!!" she screamed, her voice a battle cry that pierced the tumult around them.

Arthas, Jaina, and Lor'themar watched in horror as the projectile found its mark, burying itself deep within the necromancer's chest. But instead, Kel'thuzad threw back his head and laughed—a sound that chilled the marrow of their bones. The shaft of the arrow quivered for a moment before being repelled by the unnatural force that surrounded him.

Dar'khan and Mal'Ganis watched in amusement as the entire scene unfold.

"Thank you, my dear." Kel'thuzad rasped, his eyes alight with a dark power as he yanked the shaft from his body. "Your hatred has made this so much easier."

The Sunwell itself shrieked and wined as dark energy corrupted it's glowing waters, spreading like a plague as Kel'thuzad fell backwards, laughing as their plan finally came to fruition.

Every elf present gasped as the arcane energy was polluted and cut off from them. Out of the corrupted Sunwell rose the terrifying visage of the Arch-Lich of the Scourge. Headdress looming high on his horned head. His skeletal form levitating with powerful blue energy pulsating between his exposed rib-cage. Chain spun around him, illuminating and rattling. The pure raw energy he radiated made nervous beads of sweat roll down her forehead as his glowing eye sockets leveled at her.

Sylvanas watched in horror as Kel'thuzad's lifeless form was enveloped by the shadowy embrace, his body contorting and reshaping into something monstrous—an ArchLich.

"NO!" she screamed, her voice raw with pain and fury.

But her protests fell on deaf ears as Kel'thuzad's new form rose above the water. His laughter grew louder, the sound reverberating through the city like a tolling bell of doom.

"You fools," he taunted, his voice now a symphony of the damned. "You have granted me the power to claim what I desire most!"

The three leaders stared in disbelief as Kel'thuzad's corrupted blood seeped into the Sunwell, the holy waters hissing and steaming as the necromancer's essence began to corrupt it.

Back at Silvermoon...

Elsewhere, Falric stood guard over the final exodus of the city's inhabitants, looking for any sign of trouble. He watched as every soul that passed through the shimmering portals, leaving their once-glorious homeland to the merciless clutches of the orcs, trolls and Scourge. As the line dwindled to a trickle, he caught sight of High Priestess Liadrin and Belo'vir engaged in a desperate struggle against the Dreadlord Detheroc.

Belo'vir and Liadrin felt the Sunwell's loss as a sudden, agonizing wave of powerlessness swept through them. Detheroc's grin grew wider as he took advantage of their weakened state. In a swift, brutal movement, the Dreadlord sliced through the air with his Fel-infused claws, and Liadrin watched in horror as they connected with Belo'vir's right arm.

The Grand Magister's arm fell to the ground, the severed limb lying lifeless beside him as he was kicked away, his face contorted in pain.

"Belo'vir!'", she shouted helplessly as she tried to cast upon the Holy Light, but in her weakened state, she could not. But Detheroc was not deterred. He roared with malicious delight and sent a blast of scorching Fel flames towards Liadrin.

The captain reacted instinctively, throwing himself in front of her with his shield brought to bear as it bear the brunt of the attack. However, the shield shattered impact, sending shards of burning metal into Falric's flesh as he yelled in pain.

"Falric!" Liadrin screamed in fear and despair as she watched the human captain's left arm burn, the very essence of his being seared by the corruptive fire. Detheroc approached, his laugh echoing through the streets like a taunting chant of victory.

"Leave them," Belo'vir's voice was strained, his own strength waning as he clutched the stump of his right limb. "You have what you came for."

"Ah, but the day is still young, Grand Magister," Detheroc sneered, raising his claws for the killing blow.

Tears streamed down Liadrin's cheeks as she cradled Falric's injured arm. "Please," she begged. "Please, no more."

But the Grand Magister knew that this was a fight they couldn't win, not here, not now. With a heavy heart, he channeled the last of his power and teleported the two away from the scene of carnage.

"Belo'vir!" Liadrin's scream was one of desperation and agony as she reached out, as if she could somehow pull him through the vast distance but they found themselves at the border between Quel'thalas and Lordaeron, near Silverpine Forest.

Falric, barely conscious, groaned in pain as he tried to push himself up. "What's happening?" he uttered weakly.

"We... we failed," the High Priestess' shoulders shook violently. "We left him behind."

Falric's eyes snapped open and he looked at Liadrin, her face a mask of despair. "No..." he managed to croak, weakly getting close to her as he tried to comfort a grieving elf whose world has been torn apart.

Back at Quel'danas...

"Fall back! Fall back, now!" Lor'themar quickly ordered with all the strength his lungs could handlethrough the chaos, the desperation clear in his tone. The elves around them began to retreat, their eyes wide with terror as they watched the transformation before them.

Sylvanas, however, remained rooted to the spot as she kept looking at the monstrosity that Kel'thuzad had become. The ground beneath her trembled as the Sunwell writhed in agony, the very essence of their civilization being corrupted before her eyes. "No...no...no..." she incoherently uttered, her mind reeling with the horror of what she had done. Her rage had driven her to attack the necromancer, but instead of delivering the killing blow, she had given him the very power he had sought.

Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed to her knees, her hands clutching at her head. "I...I've doomed us all!" she screamed, her voice breaking as sobs tore through her. "...I've led us to this...to our end!"

Arthas and Jaina rushed to her side, their own faces etched with shock and despair. "Sylvanas!" Arthas urgently called out, though he was dismayed at what she had done, "we have to go, now! We'll save what we can still save!."

But she was beyond reason, her mind shattering beneath the weight of her grief. "You don't understand!" she shrieked, her eyes wild and unfocused. "I've failed you all! Failed Quel'Thalas! Failed...failed..." Her sobs grew louder, each one a wrenching cry from the depths of her soul.

Jaina tried to pull her to her feet, but Sylvanas was inconsolable, her body shaking with the force of her anguish. "We have to leave, Sylvanas!" The Archmage urgently cried out. "We'll get back to him to another day! But we have to leave this place!"

"There will be no other day!" Sylvanas wailed. "Look what I've done! I've brought the Scourge to our doorstep, and now I've given them the very power to kill us all!"

Arthas knelt beside her, trying to pull her out. "You didn't do this," he tried to assure her. "You didn't mean to-."

But she would not be comforted. "I did this! ME!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the chamber. "I killed us all!"

With a final, desperate effort, Arthas and Jaina managed to hoist her to her feet, her legs dragging as they half-carried her from the scene of their impending destruction. As they stumbled away from the horror, Sylvanas could feel the warmth of the life-giving waters fading, replaced by a cold, unyielding darkness that threatened to consume them all.

"Get us out of here, Jaina!", Arthas called out, watching as Magister Cillias teleport Lor'themar and the remaining warriors out of the Sunwell along with Anasterian. Jaina wasted no time, and she quickly activated the teleportation spell that casted them out of Quel'danas, amidst Sylvanas' sobs.

Chapter Text

For once in a long while, Tichondrius was pleased to himself, now that the necromancer-turned-Lich is now here to proceed with the next phase of the operation as they went to the Blackrock Clan's main outpost to the Alterac Mountains.

Following the tainting of the Sunwell and the fall of Quel'thalas, Tichondrius had left it on its own devices as a base for both the Scourge and the Legion, although he could care less as to what would happen next. He had appointed the turncoat Dar'khan as the Legion's ward within Silvermoon and surrounding settlements but Wrathjaw had also honored his agreement with Zul'jin in promising their lands once the High Elves and the Alliance have left.

Although this eventually led to disputes and paving way for the eventual confrontation between the troll Warlord and the Betrayer's forces but their quarrel do not impose any issues of their overall plan of the Legion.

With Kel'thuzad reborn as an ArchLich and his Death Knights revived to serve the Scourge once more, they are ready to proceed with the next plan.

Wrathjaw, Throk'Feroth and Mazrigos led the way as they guided Kel'thuzad and the Dreadlords deeper into the camp where they came upon the Demon Gate. The ArchLich moved closer as he began to commune with the presence within the gate. "I call upon thee, Archimonde! Your humble servant seeks an audience!", he bellowed just as an image of Archimonde appeared within the gate.

Immediately, Wrathjaw, Throk'Feroth and Mazrigos bowed before the image in reverence before the Defiler but held out their tongue, eager for instructions.

Archimonde sneered in response. "You called my name, puny lich, and I have come.", he replied menacingly. You are Kel'Thuzad, are you not?"

"Yes, great one.", Kel'thuzad affirmed. "I am the summoner."

The Defiler looked down on the Lich and observed his willingness to serve. "Very well, then.", Archimonde said before he gave out his instructions. "There is a special tome you must find... the only remaining spellbook of Medivh, the Last Guardian. Only his lost incantations are powerful enough to bring me into your world."

"Where should we search for it, great one?", the ArchLich further asked.

"Seek out the mortal city of Dalaran.", the Defiler further instructed. "It is there that the tome is kept. At twilight, you will begin the summoning."

The image faded before Kel'thuzad turned back to his erstwhile allies. "Well my friends...", the Lich trailed off. "It seems we have to take a detour to a place I once called home."

"The very heart of the human magi and their arcane arts?", Mazrigos spoke in both wonder and intrigue. "Their enchantments and their defenses are rumored to be formidable."

"Indeed.", Kel'thuzad agreed. "Antonidas has proven resourceful in using everything he has in his disposal and there is no doubt that he had formed a barrier that would prove detrimental to the Scourge."

Tichondrius didn't seemed to be fazed by that one bit. "Then it is a foolish oversight on his part...", he then turned to Wrathjaw. "Warchief, we have need of your forces once more. Consider this as the final test to the Blackrock Clan's loyalty to the Legion."

The Fel Orc fell in line along with Mazrigos and Throk'Feroth. "What is that you ask of, Dreadlord?"

The Darkener looked up to the Red Dragons patrolling the skies, where a small smile graced his lips. "Your warriors as usual, but we also have need for your pets. They would be useful for our mission to bring the Legion in this world."

The two Blackrock Warlocks exchanged hesitant glances. They were powerful indeed, but they couldn't afford to send them in droves due to their value and the difficulties in training and controlling them , not to mention the amount of men they had lost fighting the Alliance and the Elves. But Wrathjaw was resolute and agreed to the Dreadlord's demand. "It will be done, Dreadlord.", he quickly agreed as he began to bark out orders to his men.

Detheroc moved closer to the Darkener. "Do you still have faith in their use, Tichondrius?", he skeptically asked of him.

"They still have their uses, Detheroc.", he said in reply. "Wether or not that will last is only a matter of time. Either way, their role in bringing the Legion is minimal at best and their loss would not be so detrimental."

The obese Dreadlord hoped that to be the case, as held the orcs in very low regard.

Meanwhile...

This wasn't the outcome Arthas had hoped for when he and the 1st Legion went to Quel'thalas. And he often had to remind himself that some aspects on what would happen then are not in his control.

The procession of displaced elves stretched on for miles, protected by their surviving warriors and the 1st Legion where they finally left the ruined kingdom and into friendly and unoccupied territory.

Arthas and Jaina rode at the forefront, weary and exhausted while mirroring the grief of the refugees they led. The prince's eyes were saddened and regretful, feeling the personal failure of his to prevent the fall of the Elven kingdom go through his psyche.

"We've lost so much," he uttered sorrowfully as he continued to think as to how they could provide for so many refugees when their own homeland is under siege.

"But we've also saved so many," the Archmage gently offered, trying to find a silver lining in their predicament though she was also visibly saddened. "Unlike... before, others like Sylvanas were fortunate that they live to see another day."

He couldn't help but sigh in both sympathy and sadness for the elf who probably had it worse at this point. Having to see her homeland being rampaged, her friends murdered and tortured right in front of her, and her mind warped in a singular goal for vengeance that only made things worse for her from here.

Arthas couldn't help but see a reflection of himself when he took into consideration of everything she had went through and the deeds that she made. And now, he feared that she is going through the same phase when he was first brought back by his father.

Once they had made their escape, the proud, determined and headstrong Ranger-General had become a shadow of herself, consumed by guilt and self-loathing. Despite their efforts to comfort her, she remained distant, her once-sharp outlook now clouded by an unshakable sense of failure.

"Yes," Arthas affirmed with a sigh, "but at what cost?" He glanced back at the column of elves, as a reminder of the tragedy they had went through. "The Sunwell is lost again. Their people are scattered with nowhere to go."

Jaina knew his words all too well. "But they are not lost," she insisted. "They have a future now, Arthas. A chance to rebuild and to reclaim their homeland."

"And yet," he continued, "I fear we have only delayed the inevitable."

The procession continued, and Arthas rode closer to Lor'themar, who remained determined in spite of the recent catastrophe brought upon their people though the relief and despair was visible on his features. "We've managed to evacuate our people," the Ranger-Lord lamented in relief and uncertainty. "They're safe in the safety of Lordaeron and other neighboring kingdoms, thanks to you, Prince Arthas."

The Prince gave a nod of approval at that. "I've sent word to Regent Calia and Lord Goodwin to take them in under the protection of the Crown. Rest assured, we'll come back for Quel'thalas once the immediate threat is resolved."

Lor'themar appreciated the promise made by the Prince, though the sight of the Sunwell corrupted because of one of their own, his own close friend and companion having a hand on it as well. "But Sylvanas...what has she done?", the Ranger-Lord uttered in disbelief, anger and sorrow. "How could she?"

"She couldn't have known what had happened...", Arthas answered for him. "What Kel'thuzad did to her and her comrades at Sunfall was unspeakable, and he used her anger and grief to push her into making a choice she never truly understood the consequences of."

The elf was angered, but the exhaustion and sorrow etched into his face won over. He knew Sylvanas to be a warrior driven by her duty, not a pawn to be used in such a heinous way. "But still...to think she had a hand of the Sunwell's corruption...", he uttered.

Arthas decided to change the subject. "What of Anasterian?", he carefully inquired, knowing the wounds that Mal'Ganis inflicted onto him were heavy.

"He lives," the Ranger-Lord assured him, though he wasn't sure wether or not the King would make it without giving his heir much needed instructions before he passed. "Barely. He's in no state to lead or to travel. "We'll need to send word to Prince Kael'thas back at Dalaran."

The Prince and the Archmage hoped that Kael would come back as soon as possible because with the Convocation wiped out and the King in a critical condition, he was the logical choice that remained to guide the remaining Quel'dorei.

"But, Lor'themar," Arthas then added unexpectedly, "As much as possible, do not let anyone know what happened back the Sunwell. For the sake of your people's morale and for Sylvanas.", he requested the elf. "It wasn't a choice that she wanted nor she had intended. And her well-being is concerning at best.'

The Ranger-Lord looked at Arthas, for a moment. He knew the human Prince was right; the truth would only bring more despair to an already broken people. "I'll make sure of it," he promised. "As a way to repay you for saving what remains of ours."

They rode on in silence as they make their way into Lordaeron's border. the plight of the elves was dire, but for now, their immediate concern was the safety of their people. "Where do we take them?" The Ranger-Lord finally asked in uncertainty.

Artha, turned to Lor'themar for a moment. "To the border town of Blackwood," he pointed out.. "It's the nearest safe haven and close enough to keep a watchful eye on Quel'thalas."

"But isn't that town ruled by-." Lor'themar began, trailing off as he recalled the human ruler's open disdain for elves.

"I'll deal with him when we get there.", the Prince assured him as they continue to make their way to the said town. "Regardless of his opinions, he will follow what the Crown decrees of him."

The Ranger-Lord took a moment to digest the prince's words, but he knew he had to trust Arthas for now. "Very well," he conceded. "We will go to where you will us, Prince Arthas. But I must prepare my people for what lies ahead."

The two leaders turned their attention to the long line of refugees that stretched behind them, their faces a reflection of the turmoil that gripped their hearts.

Falric, his left arm in a sling, trying to look focused and stoic though the pain in his face was evident as Liadrin wept quietly against his back, her slender shoulders trembling with the weight of the loss of their homeland and the Sunwell.

Koltira walked with a makeshift cane while his arm was slung over Thassarian's shoulder as the human supported his brother-in-arms.

Solanar and his brother Falon walked side by side as they kept close guard of the wagon containing the comatose form of Anasterian. Marwyn led the rearguard along with his division in case there are any pursuers.

Jennalla guided the Quel'dorei children who were curious of the world ahead of them, not knowing that their homeland was ravaged while they were separated from their parents and kept asking the Farstrider where they kept asking her where their parents are, where she couldn't give a precise answer as she couldn't know if they were still alive or not.

The sight of their sorrow was almost too much for Arthas to bear, but he knew that now, they needed help. Both to make sure that they would be able to reclaim their homeland and to make up for the countless atrocities he had done in the passed.

"How are your people holding up?" Arthas asked Lor'themar with genuine concern in his tone.

"They are holding together," Lor'themar replied with a sigh, looking back to the line of displaced elves. "But without the Sunwell, we all started to grow weak." He paused. "We never thought we would actually lose it. The very thought of a life without its power is...unbearable. While Farstriders like Halduron, Sylvanas and myself may be able to endure for a time, but others...like Liadrin, they need the magic to sustain themselves."

"We're not without options," Jaina interjected, wishing to give the Ranger-Lord and his people hope in any way she could. "The Kirin Tor has been working on creating Mana Crystals with the help of the Quel'dorei within our ranks. I can send word to have several batches be sent to Blackwood, along with Mana potions. It won't replace the Sunwell, but it will help sustain your people in the short term."

For the first time in a long while, Lor'themar felt hopeful of the Archmage's words. "You can do this?"

"Yes," she nodded with confidence. "Master Antonidas will understand. And he'll be glad to help."

The Ranger-Lord let out a sigh of relief. "Bless your kindness, Lady Jaina," he said, bowing his head slightly in gratitude.

Eventually, the approached the border town of Blackwood. It was small, with several houses, farmlands that weren't in use because of the plague, a riverbank, a military outpost, and plenty of room for the refugees to occupy. Fortunately, the refugees are only a large portion of the surviving Quel'dorei as the rest of them have been teleported to Lordaeron City and other unoccupied and safe territories.

The human residents looked out from their windows and doors, curiosity piqued by the sudden arrival of the elves. The villagers had been aware of the Crown Prince's expedition to support the elves, but to see them beleaguered and weary was a sobering sight. The elves, once proud and haughty in their own lands, now looked hollow and lost, feeling a deep sense of displacement.

Arthas, Jaina, and Lor'themar at the head of the procession, watched as the initial surprise on the residents' faces slowly shifted into sympathy and compassion. Some of the villagers, noticing the injured and exhausted elves, rushed forward to offer aid, bringing in bandages and waterskins.

"Welcome, my friends," called out an elderly man. "Please, let us help you."

The elves looked at each other with gratitude and uncertainty. They had been through so much, and to be met with unexpected kindness was a gesture they graciously accepted as many initially thought that they would be scorned due to their King's decree that left the Alliance to deal with the Horde alone those fifteen years ago.

Arthas rode forward to address to the villagers, appreciating their generous gesture. "Thank you, my friends. They are refugees of Quel'Thalas, seeking temporary shelter. They come in peace and with a heavy heart." He paused, looking around the gathering crowd. "By the authority vested in me as the Crown Prince of Lordaeron, I decree that these elves are to be treated with the same respect and care as any of your kin. They are under my protection."

The villagers, some still skeptical, but mostly nodded in agreement. The soldiers of the 1st Legion followed their prince's command, began to set up camp for the elven soldiers and civilians. The elders and children were quickly ushered into the homes that had been offered, the warmth of the hearths a stark contrast to the coldness of their recent memories.

The generosity of the humans didn't go unnoticed. "Thank you," Lor'themar professed, looking over Arthas and Jaina. "Our people are in dire need of rest and healing."

Jaina nodded with a smile. "This is what we fight for. To protect the innocent, regardless of race or creed."

Arthas returned her smile, as he firmly looked at his men and subjects helping the elves. "We've found a haven for now," he said, his gaze lingering on the bustling camp. "Though there are still plenty more to deal with."

The two of them watched the sun began to set. Despite the warmth of the human's welcome, the elves felt cold reality of their dire straits. Yet, after being shown of such kindness, they clinged onto the hope that things would be better.

That evening...

To say Garithos would be livid is an understatement, especially as he looked at those people swarming into his territory like rats searching for scraps from what little his townsfolk have to offer.

He was furious at the sight of the Farstriders bringing in what he considered to be 'more of the enemy'. His face was both frustrated and disgusted, and he stormed over to Captain Bilric, who was standing idle and awaiting his new orders.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Garithos bellowed, pointing a finger at the elves from the window of his manor. "I gave no such orders for these... creatures to be brought here!"

Bilric looked at his General unflinchingly. "My Lord," he began firmly, "Prince Arthas himself has decreed that the elves of Quel'thalas are to be treated as honored guests. They have suffered a great loss of their homeland, and we are to offer them aid and refuge."

The General's eyes narrowed with disdain. "Their precious trees and magic couldn't save them," he sneered. "What makes you think they won't bring their weaknesses here and taint our homes further?"

Bilric stood his ground. "Their land has been ravaged by the Scourge," he replied with restraint. "They are not the enemy, my lord. They are allies in this war against the undead."

Garithos scoffed with disgust. "Allies? They are nothing but a liability. Look at them! They can't even defend their own lands!"

The two men stood in standoff, the captain's loyalty to Arthas' orders at odds with the Baron's deep-seated prejudices. Before long, Garithos stormed out and decided to confront these people himself which Bilric shook his head in disappointment and to make sure his leader didn't do anything stupid himself.

Jaina couldn't help but feel that they led the people near a powder keg, especially as to who rules Blackwood in the present and his own personal opinions.

"Arthas, are you sure it's a good idea that Lor'themar and the others stay her at Blackwood?", Jaina asked him apprehensively with worry as they walked along the streets of Blackwood after the 1st Legion have set up camp.

The Prince understood her worried and sighed himself. "I know, Jaina.", Arthas assured her. "But knowing them, they would want to be near to scout Quel'thalas from a distance as well as a forward base for them to stage operations in bringing back Silvermoon. So I have to make compromises."

Jaina couldn't help but feel skeptical though she chose to stand by in Arthas' words. "Are Antonidas and the Council informed of the upcoming Scourge offensive?", he asked, changing the subject.

She cleared her throat first. "I've sent word for them. The Book of Medivh is already hidden, and the population is being evacuated. They've also began to set up the defensive barriers that would damage incoming Scourge forces, something that I surmise that you're familiar with, Arthas.", Jaina informed him though Arthas wasn't comforted by that one bit.

"Yes, although we have to be careful since the Scourge would be tactful enough to send in the Blackrock Orcs or any other forces that aren't among their ranks to bypass their barrier.", Arthas uttered with unease. "And in that case, the Blackrock Clan would probably field in more than a few beasts of their own if we're not careful."

Their conversation paused when Arthas and Jaina saw a commotion that led the Prince to sigh heavily as they approached the heated exchange between the General and the Quel'dorei leaders.

Immediately, the two of them stepped forward between the General and the elves. "Lor'themar, Liadrin, what is going on here?", he turned to address the two elf leaders, though the Ranger-Lord appeared to be ready to answer his fists onto Othmar.

Garithos spotted before he cleared his throat in courtesy of the Prince. "Your elven friends here seem to think we have the luxury to house and feed them in our already strained lands. We have a war to fight, my Prince, and our resources are better spent on the battlefront than on these weakened refugees."

The High Priestess was angered at the man's blatant disregard to their ploght. "Our lands are lost, our people suffering. Is there no compassion in your heart, human?"

Garithos' face grew colder as he replied, "it extends only to those who can contribute to our war effort, not to those who will only serve as a drain on what little we have."

To say Arthas and Jaina are outraged of the man's lack of tact and respect is an understatement. But before any of them could react,

Sylvanas abruptly stepped forward where she raised her forehead and slammed it into Garithos's nose and the lower half of his face, causing the General reeled backward, blood spurting from his shattered nose. His guards prepared to intervene but a hand from Captain Bilric stopped them, mentally telling his General that he deserved it. "You wrench!", Garithos cursed out.

Before he could retaliate, Liadrin, Lor'themar and Solanar rushed to Sylvanas' side to restraint her as she continued to shout, her voice laced with bitterness and grief. Even with all their strength, they struggled to stop her movements as the Ranger-General wanted to do more than what she just did.

"You dare," Sylvanas hissed through clenched teeth, "you dare to speak of weakness and burdens. You weren't there to see your people slaughtered! You weren't there to see our lifeline destroyed! You weren't there to see everything you loved wither and die!"" The pain and rage in her voice was raw and unfiltered, resonating with the agony of what had happened. Her fists tightened as if she longed to do more than just verbally assault the man.

Jaina stepped in. "Lord Garithos," she began, her eyes flashing with the same fire as Sylvanas, "These are not just 'elves' but the very people whose lands and lives were destroyed because of the same enemy we all face. If you fail to see that, then you're as much as a problem to them as the undead."

Arthas, placed a firm hand on Sylvanas's shoulder to calm her. He knew the depths of her pain and the guilt she bore for her own role as to why are they here. He could not stand by and let the General's ignorance add to her burden.

Turning to Garithos, Arthas addressed him. "They are under my protection. By my right as Crown Prince of Lordaeron, I decree that Blackwood will be under the temporary control of the crown. Bigotry and prejudices will have no place here."

Bilric, watching the exchange with a mix of disbelief and admiration, chose to remain silent. He knew that Garithos had pushed too far and that he had brought this upon himself. The Baron had always been a man of his own convictions, but his blind hatred had cost them a valuable opportunity for unity.

The humans present looked between their ruler and the elves, their expressions a mix of surprise, anger, and confusion. The elves, on the other hand, watched the unfolding events with a sense of cautious hope, looking at the human prince who stood up for them.

The General's eyes narrowed as he gave his reply to the heir. "They are a burden, Prince Arthas," he insisted coldl and dismissively. "Their kind brought this doom upon us all with their meddling in magic. How do we know they won't turn on us, seeking to claim what's left of Lordaeron as their own once they have regained their strength?"

Arthas felt like planting an icy fist directly on his face to prove his point but restrained himself. "They are not your enemy, Garithos," he pointed put. "They are your allies. And as your Prince, I expect you to treat them as such. They will be sheltered and cared for, with the same respect and dignity as any other refugee of this war."

"Your compassion is admirable, but misplaced," he spat. "They are elves. They do not deserve our charity after their stunts during the previous war. We are already stretched thin and our resources limited. And they couldn't even protect their own lands! Let alone themselves!"

Lor'themar looked like ready to let go and have Sylvanas rush and beat Garithos within an inch of his life but a glance from Liadrin told him to hold it. Jaina also saw her beloved's patience growing thin but saw the restraint he had been practicing.

Arthas remained calm, making it clear to Garithos as to who he answers to. "It's a convincing argument, Lord Garithos.", Arthas conceded but stared at him with challenge. "And I expect you to carry out my orders to have these people sheltered and cared for to the letter. Do you understand me?"

The human lord knew that to argue against the Crown Prince and the de facto ruler of Lordaeron would mean consequences so he simply nodded. "As you command, Prince Arthas.", he grunted.

Arthas was satisfied of this response. "Go and assist General Abbendis in the Tirisfal Glades. You and Captain Bilric will be needed to push the undead back from there. Perhaps a change of scenery will remind you of what this war truly is about and who we are fighting it for."

The human lord left with his guards to prepare, which Arthas sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his palm for the stress in dealing with him if it meant getting him away from the Quel'dorei.

The tension slowly dissipated asArthas took a deep breath and turned to Lor'themar, Sylvanas and Liadrin with sincerity. "I am deeply sorry for his behavior," he professed steadilt despite the turmoil of emotions that roiled within him. "Please, accept my apologies on behalf of my people. We are all in this fight together, and there is no place for such prejudice among allies."

The High Priestess softened, and she offered a nod of understanding. "Thank you, Prince Arthas," she said, accepting his sincere apology. "Your words mean much to us, and your actions speak even louder."

Lor'themar, who had calmed himself, stepped forward. "We are grateful for your protection and the sanctuary you offer," he said in reply. "We will not forget this debt of honor."

But Sylvanas, who looked hainted, had already turned away. Her shoulders were rigid with anger and pain, and she walked away from the group without a single word. The others watched her retreating form, seeing that her silence spoke volumes about the depth of her anger and hurt.

Arthas looked at her with regret. He had felt the weight of her sorrow and anger in his own heart, and he knew that her wounds ran deep. He turned back to Liadrin and Lor'themar, determined. "We will not rest until your lands are restored and your people are safe," he promised. "Your home will not be lost to the Scourge. I swear it."

Liadrin offered a small, sad smile. "Your promise is comforting, Prince Arthas," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "But it is not just our lands we seek to reclaim. It is our very identity."

Lor'themar placed a hand on her shoulder. "We understand of what you face, and we stand with you," he firmly said. "And for that, we will do what we can to aid you as well.

Then, as if on cue, the elven soldiers began to set up the camp for the night, their movements precise and efficient despite their weariness. As for the elf civilians, particularly the children and the young, they looked at Arthas with newfound admiration and respect who had led them in defending Quel'thalas, that they had found a champion, a beacon of hope in a world plunged into chaos.

Jaina watched Sylvanas' retreating back with a heavy heart, seeing pain she carried was a burden she would never wish upon anyone, just as she had seen with Arthas in his own past regrets. She looked to him, silently asking for his help. "She needs us," Jaina professed, breaking the silence. "We must not only save her people but help her find peace as well."

The Prince nodded as he watched her disappear into the forests to be alone with her thoughts.. "We will," he promised. "We'll make sure she gets the help she needed."

Later...

"My apologies for the accomodations provided, but no one has lived in this manor for generations.", Arthas informed Lor'themar and Liadrin as they entered the building that could act as their makeshift command post for the surviving High Elves in Blackwood. Tents belonging from High Elf survivors and soldiers surrounded the manor like a village where they could be easily managed to until they could find a way to retake Quel'thalas.

The mansion itself, thought quite large, had been empty following the death of Baron Blackwood, the namesake of the town and Garithos' predecessors as its rulers. The Ranger-Lord looked over the empty rooms , looking over the dusty, cobweb-filled master's bedroom. "It is more than sufficient, Prince Arthas," he informed him. "Our people are resilient. We will make it our home until Quel'thalas is restored."

Liadrin, with a newfound determination, added, "And with the help you've given, we can quickly repair this place and make it hospitable for our kin."

The Prince softened at their words, and he placed a comforting hand on the Ranger-Lord's shoulder. "Rest assured, I will not forget the aid you've given us," he earnestly said. "I am placing Lieutenant Thassarian in charge of your welfare," he further added. "Should you require anything, do not hesitate to contact him. I have made it clear that inappropriate behavior will not be tolerated."

Arthas left the two alone, where Lor'themar sat against a crumbling wall, with Liadrin following suit. "I never thought I'd see the day that we have to be relying on humans again.", the Ranger-Lord, lamented though this did not carry any disdain or resentment.

The High Priestess looked downcast, feeling the Light within her growing dim, not understanding wether or not she is losing her faith in it. "But it goes to show their willingness to help us regardless of our history with them.", she professed. "The Prince has trust in us, and therefore, we should trust him in return."

That night...

Sylvanas sat alone on the manor's roof, looking at the nightly sky as if it had the answers she were looking for. The stars twinkled coldly, like a silent witness to her pain.

Even after she was far away from Sunfall, she felt the roughness of the shackles that had once bound her, and now acted as a phantom pain that mirrored the shackles of guilt that weighed down her soul. Her mind kept bringing back vague images: the desolate beauty of Quel'thalas, the sadism in Kel'thuzad, and the lifeless stare of her slain comrades, especially thay of Nathanos in his final moments.

The memory of her own pride stung like a fresh wound, and she clenched her fists in anger at herself. Now, her people suffered, reduced to refugees relying on human charity, because of her, because she had underestimated the Scourge's reach and of her own decisions.

Her heart was torn as she felt a blend of feelings: anger at Kel'thuzad, regret for her misdeeds , and a profound sorrow that threatened to overtake her.

"I figured I might find you here.", she heard to find the human Prince approaching her while careful to maneuver around to take a seat next to her on the roof.

"Have you come to gloat, Prince?", she asked without looking at him, thinking that Arthas came her to remind her of her failures, to gloat that he had been right all along and that she let her foolish pride led her people to this.

But all she could see in Arthas' eyes are that of a concerned comrade wishing she was well, after seeing the suffering she had endured. His intentions remained pure and he looked at her for a clue that would help understand her better if it meant to help heal the pain that had been inflicted onto her.

The Prince looked down in sadness and resignation. "I am not as cold as to mock your pain, Sylvanas.", he assured her.

She hated how genuine he is on helping her. Because it made her feel inadequate and weak in front of him. But she couldn't find herself to turn him away.

Arthas took a deep breath as he mournfully spoke his next words. "I'm...sorry for your loss."

Wether or not it was an apology to both the present and the past hounded within his mind, but it felt ethreal at the same time.

Sylvanas remained downcast, looking at the tiles below. "If...if I had stayed back at that fortress...would the Sunwell remain untainted. Might be this fate's way of saying that I shouldn't have been too ahead of myself. Carrying on like I do. Cursing, and drinking, and fighting."

"You are a fighter, indeed.", Arthas remarked in admiration as he tried to lift her spirits. "When I was younger, I hear stories of Alleria and Sylvanas Windrunner taking on the best on what the Horde had to offer during the Second War. Just the pair of you."

Sylvanas looked up at Arthas, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly. "Some of it is true," she conceded with a bit of fondness for the past. "Alleria was the heart of our battles, the fiercest storm in the eye of the war. I... I miss her, every day." She grew distant with the memory of happier times, and she let out a sigh. "And now, I miss Quel'thalas... everything I knew before they came and ruined all of it."

The elf took a good look at him. "Prince, why do you even try to help me? Aren't you...angry? Disappointed? Because everything you did for my people only burdened yours?"

He shook his head in response. "Not at all, Sylvanas.", he replied. "We tend to learn that, not everything always goes exactly as planned. It's something that I have to learn the hard way after what had happened to my mentor and my father."

Even with those mere words, Sylvanas felt like she was being lectured by Alleria in such matters. "How could you even say that? My judgement...my decisions..."

"You're not to blame for everything," he reminded her. "You've done what you could have and could do"

She hated him for that.

She hated that he refused to gloat or scold her for her mistakes.

For her pride. For her behaviour at him.

She looked at him for any contempt she felt she deserved. Instead, she found only understanding and compassion. "Why?" she uttered in disbelief. "Why do you care?"

Arthas paused. "Because you're something else, Sylvanas," he said softly. "A leader. And I've seen what you're capable of when you fight for what you believe in. Not just that, you're a friend."

The word hit her like a blow. A friend. After everything she had put him through, the mistrust and spite she had thrown his way, he still considered her a friend who stood up for her at the throne room and risked his life and kingdom at Sunfall. She didn't know how to respond, so she buried her face onto her knees.

Her gaze returned to the prince moments after, and she looked at him for any understanding . "Do you feel it too, Prince? This... this emptiness inside?"

Arthas breathed out before answering with a haunting sadness that mirrored hers. "More than you know, Sylvanas. More than you know," he whispered. "May all of Azeroth's gods curse me, I do."

Within her, Sylvanas wanted to scream her heart out to herself at how much of a failure she had been.

When her youngest brother died when she swore to protect him, Sylvanas felt the sun in her life permanently set that day.

She had swore that she would never cry again after the death of Lirath. But promises could only get her far when she had a hand of destroying countless lives because of her pride and her quest for vengeance.

Everyone once saw her as their defender. Only for her to seal their Kingdom's fate.

She had no one else to hold onto.

Her parents are gone. Lirath and Alleria are gone. Nathanos was gone. She couldn't even face her own friends, Lor'themar and Halduron without being so ashamed of herself for what she had done to the Sunwell. And she knew her surviving people vilified her for it.

All she could hold onto, was the hand that she repeatedly swatted away because of her pride. The same person whom she wanted to outdo in every way since he started to help them all without asking anything in return.

He chose to help them despite not having any real obligation. The one who reached out to help them because he can. The hand of a man she was envious and resented for being better than her when it was clear that all he wished to do, was to help: Arthas.

He always looked out for her, even when she didn't want him in the first place and often saw him as beneath her. Until it was clear that he was the very leader Alleria had been: always dedicated to duty, moved past the pride they hold onto, and to protect all sentient beings in Azeroth no matter the cost.

For Arthas as he looked at her, he remembered that all he had given her was suffering and despair in his previous life. While she never did became the Banshee Queen in this life and made her life a living nightmare as Arthas did so before, her new life is now living in a sea of regret, self-loathing, agony, pain, despair, and guilt. How her anger, her pride, and her vengeance made it all happen.

She strived to live up to her mother and her sister's legacy, and to keep the memory of Lirath alive by becoming their homeland's protector that he never got to be.

Her close friends, Anya and Velonara, died in front of her. Her beloved Nathanos died due to her own defiance to protect Quel'thalas while he comforted her, which became a torment of her failing to save everyone she cared about.

Nathanos helped her at moving forward to continue with her duties when Lirath died tragically. The one person who understood her the most than her own blood. With him gone...who else could she turn to?

Arthas offered her the same gesture after she had shot him down. Spat at him. Rejected his offers of aid and believed he had ulterior motives for Quel'thalas. And yet, he still continued to give her support. As if he had known her plight, at having failed his own homeland and loved ones before. He offered no words, only gestures that are aimed at keeping herself intact.

He stood firm, even when her neglect and pride had allowed the traitor Dar'khan to open the gates to both the Scourge and to the Blackrock Orcs who proceeded to rampage their kingdom. He stood at her defense when she was being vilified by the elven court for her neglect of the Prince's warnings.

He made it a priority to rescue her when her own King thought she was lost and was ready to write her off as a casualty back at Sunfall. He made it a priority to evacuate her people to safety in his own homeland and beyond, pushing the use of his powers and his resources to the absolute limit for them.

Even when she tainted the Sunwell by killing Kel'thuzad in its waters, Arthas never shown any anger nor any form of disappointment to her. Only his commitment to save her and her people, offering his support one way or another even when it was clear she deserved no such kindness.

She had closed herself for so long, to keep whatever fears and insecurities within her hidden. The moment she subconsciously reached out her hand to hold that of Arthas, she couldn't bear it anymore. She inwardly wanted someone to understand her and her struggles, even if just a little.

Sylvanas's grip tightened around Arthas's hand, and before she knew it, she had collapsed against his shoulder, her sobs wracking her body as the dam of her emotions finally broke. Arthas felt the tremble of her slender frame and the warmth of her tears seep through his clothes, and his heart ached for her pain. He had witnessed countless tragedies and had felt the weight of his own regrets, but nothing could have prepared him for the intensity of her despair.

"I-I never," she choked out shakily and barely coherent. "I never wanted any of this...for my people...for Quel'thalas..."

Arthas didn't know what to say. He knew all too well the crushing weight of guilt and the desire to atone for the unspeakable. "Sylvanas," he whispered. "You are not alone in this."

But she continued to apologize, her words a jumbled mess of regret and self-loathing. "I should have listened to you... I should have seen Dar'khan for what he was... I should have... I should have..."

"You did what you thought was right," he interjected with her with empathy. "And now, we will do what we can to make it right."

"But how?" she whispered. "How can I ever make this right? How can I face them?"

"One step at a time," Arthas whispered to her assuringly. "Everything starts with one step, Sylvanas."

Here she was, reduced to a sobbing mess before a Prince, who offered unconditional care and help that she never knew she needed. But she couldn't bear to look at him and see how much of a mess she has become.

Arthas bit his lip when the guilt he felt came coming back to him. In his previous life, as all he had shown her was pain and suffering, shattering her world out of sheer spite and hatred when all she did was defend her homeland from him.

In the present, all Arthas wished now, was to give her hope, and help her heal, even if she remained unaware of the fate that befell her before.

The Prince watched her in complete sorrow. "Sylvanas," he soothingly called to her. "Let it out. You don't have to carry this alone."

He knew all too well the feeling of drowning in guilt, of feeling like the world was crumbling around him, and how much it hurt to face the consequences of one's own actions.

He had done so much to her before and here she was, allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of him, the very person who had brought her the most pain. Yet, his compassion never faltered. "You're not the only one who has made mistakes," he continued, feeling her grip on his hand tightening slightly. "But we learn from them, we grow from them. That way, we can find a way to fix what's been broken."

Sylvanas felt the warmth of his embrace, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to lean into it. But the storm inside her raged on. "I've made so many mistakes, Arthas ...", she choked out.

"And I have my fair share of them, Sylvanas ", he professed to her. "It's what we do with those mistakes that truly defined us."

"But I've lost everything. Quel'thalas is gone, the Sunwell is tainted..."

Arthas held her closer, feeling his own heart breaking with every one of her pained words. "No," he assured her. "You haven't lost everything. You still have your people, and they need you, Sylvanas."

"But what kind of leader am I?" she retorted, pulling away slightly, her eyes searching his. "After what I did?"

"You are the kind of leader who fights for her people, even when it seems like there's no hope left," he answered her. "You're the kind of leader who makes the hard choices, who faces her fears despite what they throw at you."

"You've made mistakes, Sylvanas," Arthas gently conceded. "But you're not defined by your mistakes. You're defined by what you do now. By how you choose to move forward."

For what felt like an eternity, the Ranger-General remained silent. She had always been so strong, so determined to never let anyone see the cracks in her armor. But now, she felt the weight of her grief threatening to crush her.

"Let yourself fall apart," he whispered to her as she continued to weep against his shoulder. "I will be here to hold you together."

Those were the same words that Jaina uttered when he himself crumbled before her. And it felt so strange to utter them to her of all people, but it felt right. Needed even, knowing that for all the struggles they had faced, Arthas found a kindred spirit with Sylvanas.

From a terrace below, Jaina felt a tear drop from her cheek. She had seen Arthas at his lowest, had been there when he too had broken down under the weight of his own regrets. And now, here he was, offering the same solace to Sylvanas that she had once given him, reminding her of the man he had become since their journey to Northrend, how found it within himself to change, and to offer compassion to others when he once thought that he never deserved it. The man before her now was one who offered solace to the broken, who sought to heal rather than destroy.

Slowly, Sylvanas began to weep, as she finally allowed herself to grieve. For Lirath, whose life had been stolen from him so cruelly. For Alleria, whose light had been extinguished. For Nathanos, whose love and loyalty had been her light through the darkest of times, now snuffed out by the very evil she had sought to destroy.

And through it all, Arthas held her, whispering words of comfort and encouragement into her ear. Words she never thought she would hear from the one she had once looked down upon. Words that somehow, inexplicably, made the pain a little more bearable.

She felt the last vestiges of her pride slip away, leaving her raw and exposed. But instead of the cold, empty void she had expected, she found a warmth, a sense of belonging that she hadn't felt since the day Lirath had been ripped from her life.

And she realized, in that moment, that she didn't want to let go of him.

He was the only thing keeping her afloat in the sea of despair, the one person who offered her the hope she had thought lost.

Because in a world of darkness, he had become her beacon, her hope, her anchor. And she would not let him go without a fight.

The following morning...

In the refugee camp, Arthas and Jaina sat among the Quel'dorei refugees, sharing a simple yet warm meal. Despite the somber mood that still lingered from the fall of Quel'thalas, the act of breaking bread together brought a sense of unity and camaraderie between humans and elves

"You were incredible, Arthas," Jaina spoke out with admiration. "I don't know how you managed to get through to her."

Arthas took a sip of his water. "It wasn't easy," he admitted. "But she's strong, Jaina. Stronger than anyone I know. She's been through so much, and she's still standing."

The Archmage smiled at him. "And you helped her keep standing," she said, reaching over to pat his hand. "I know it doesn't erase the past, but what you did for her, it means something."

The Prince returned her smile. "I just hope it's enough," he uttered though he inwardly felt that it isn't.

"It is," Jaina assured him with conviction. "You've shown her that she's not alone, that she has someone to lean on. And for someone like Sylvanas, that's more than enough."

The chatter was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching their small gathering. Sylvanas hovered at the edge, looking plain. Arthas and Jaina both looked up to her. For a moment, no one spoke. Then, without hesitation, Jaina gestured to the empty space beside her. "Sylvanas," she called out. "Please, come join us."

The elf was caught off-guard by the the offer. She took a tentative step forward. "Are you sure?" she asked, hesitant.

"Of course," Arthas encouraged her, tapping the empty space between him and Jaina. "You're welcome here."

With a nod, Sylvanas took a seat between them with her posture rigid. The three of them sat in silence for a few moments before she spoke. "Thank you," she said, glancing between them. "I never thought I would find...allies like you two."

The Archmage leaned in. "We're more than just allies," she said. "We're friends. And friends look out for one another."

All Sylvanas found was sincerity. With a sigh, she allowed a small smile to grace her lips. "Friends," she uttered to herself. Other than Nathanos, she never truly had other human friends.

"Yes," Arthas agreed with a smile of his own. "We're all in this together."

As they shared the meal, Sylvanas felt something within her begin to mend. The warmth of their companionship seeped into her, filling her with a sense of belonging she hadn't felt since the fall of Quel'thalas.

Within her, she was surprised by their kindness and acceptance. Despite her brashness and her actions, they saw something in her worth saving.

And as she listened to their words, she found herself thinking that perhaps she had found two people who could help keep her together in the face of all she had lost.

Chapter Text

Repairs and cleanup onto Blackwood Manor, now routinely called Belore'thalas or Sun Home in Thalassian by the elf workers, are now being extensively made alongside human ones as Lor'themar was being briefed by the surviving Quel'dorei Magisters and officials. The Ranger-Lord looked exhausted even at the early hours of the day, as his new responsibilities as a leader of his people grew by the hour, especially since King Anasterian is still in a coma from the wounds Mal'Ganis had inflicted onto him.

Even though Sylvanas technically outranked Lor'themar and should be their leader by default, she mostly went alone, leaving him to fill their shoes alongside Liadrin. Rommath would have been one of the Ranger-Lord's advisors but he is on his way to Dalaran to reach Kael'thas. Wether or not Lor'themar would try to get the Quel'dorei back in the Alliance is still up in the air, but he was pragmatic enough to try and find any solution for the betterment of his surviving people.

The Prince had initially planned to speak to Lor'themar to inform him of their plan to head to Dalaran and reinforce the Kirin Tor. But he stopped short of entering the main office to find Sylvanas sitting on the balcony's railings while leaning against a pillar. She was staring at the direction where Quel'thalas was located, and she bore a daze and a look of both longing and lost at the same time. Carefully and tactfully, he approached her.

He took a moment to think before he made up his mind. "Sylvanas?", he called out to her, and she turned her head slowly to acknowledge his presence with a slight nod.

"Prince...", the elf replied back before looking out at the horizon once more. "What brings you here?"

Keep calm, Arthas...there is not much reason to be apprehensive. "I wanted to check on you," he answered her, leaning next to her. "To make sure you're okay."

Sylvanas offered him a small smile that fell not long after. "Somewhat," she replied. "After everything that just happened... I can't help but wonder what I'm supposed to do now."

The Prince leaned against the railing beside her to look at her sympathetically. "Well, you could always take up knitting," he joked in an attempt to uplift the mood.

'Knitting?" Sylvanas repeated incredulouly where a chuckle escaped her lips despite herself. "I don't think that would suit me very well."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt if you try it," he chortled. "You could knit little sweaters for the local wildlife, maybe even a scarf."

Sylvanas couldn't help but laugh. "A scarf?" she snorted. "Probably do it if you promise not to freeze to death in your armor."

"I'd wear it proudly," he pressed on that kept her smile going in spite of what she and her people went throigh. "But only if it's in Quel'dorei colors."

They shared a moment of levity, the tension between them easing slightly. It was a brief respite from the heavy burden of their shared grief, but it was a welcome one.

The Ranger-General took a look at her right hand. The ashen-gray color was evident and she couldn't help but feel a sense of dread whenever she looked at it. Ever since she stumbled at the medical wing when Silvermoon was falling, she kept wondering what made it to be like this, after she left Sunfall after what Kel'thuzad done to her, and she felt that Arthas might have the answer for it. "What...happened to me?", she asked of him, showing her right hand.

His response was a reluctant sigh, as if he knew that she would soon ask him that sooner or later.

"When Kel'thuzad had you at Sunfall, you were at the brink of death," he began to explain and he noticed how tense Sylvanas was becoming. "Jaina and I, we had to act fast." He paused for a moment, watching her reaction carefully. "We used a combination of death magic and Holy Light to keep you alive. It was the only way to keep you from becoming one of them."

Her eyes widened in horror as she instinctively took a step back. "What have you done to me?" she demanded, holding up her ashen hand. "Am I a... a monster now?"

He shook his head in response. "Your will, your life, your body, your soul... they are all yours, Sylvanas," he assured her. "I have no dominion over them. Nor do I ever have any intention in wanting to have any."

This time, at the very least.

Her breathing picked up, instinctively trying to make sure she wasn't a living corpse that she had fought no that long ago as well as pinching her forearms to feel the slight pain to prove she lived. "But what am I?" she pressed. "If not one of the Scourge, then what?"

"You are still Sylvanas," Arthas simply said in response. "Whatever form you take, you're still you."

The Ranger-General couldn't fathom as to what she had heard completely as she looked down when her mind was running in the circles to grab Arthas by the collar and demand further explanation and to listen to him more carefully.

"If I've made you something else, something you can't live with, I'll understand if you want to deal with me. But I promise you, I had no intention of changing who you are."

Her hand trembled, but she did not pull away. "And if Kel'thuzad had his way?"

"Then you would be forced to do unspeakable things to your own people," Arthas said grimly. "No one had to go through that pain when you risked your life to save theirs, only to do the opposite had the Scourge reached you first."

Imagining that was enough to shake her to the core. "Then I am... free?"

He nodded. "You are," Arthas affirmed. "And no one will ever change that."

The two tell silent, and Sylvanas stared at her hand with a baffled and uncertain perspective. She wanted to learn more of what he did, and the lengths they went through to prevent her from going to the grave as if it were the greatest mistake that would ever happen to this world, but she couldn't find herself to do so properly as she looked back at the horizon before her.

She could deal with her hand later, before she looked down to find the refugees being given rations by the 1st Legion's troops and of Blackwood's citizens. The children were playing, blissfully unaware of the chaos that just happened to Quel'thalas while others began to display symptoms of magic withdrawal, now that the Sunwell is tainted.

The Ranger-General could feel her heart ache at the very sight along with the regret she had carried that day. "Look at us," she whispered. "Exiles who are both lost and unsure on what to do, our people relying on human charity to survive. What kind of a leader have I been, Prince?"

Arthas took a moment to respond. "You've been the leader who gave her very best on spite of the odds," he said firmly. "But we all make choices that lead us to where we are today. The question is, what do we do now?"

"I have much to answer for," the elf uttered in both regret and sorrow as she clenched her tainted hand into a fist. "As Ranger-General of Silvermoon, I failed to uphold my principles and my duty to the point I've committed dereliction of it."

He understood what she felt. "We tend to make grave errors in the moment of passion on doing on what we think is right without thinking of the consequences. Which makes us human or in your case, sentient beings with flaws."

"Where do I even begin, Prince?", she inquired him in a tone that was almost hopeful for an answer from him.

"By keep moving forward for your people," he replied as he reflected of the choices he himself made. "You may have lost Quel'thalas, but you still have them. And they need you now more than ever."

"I'm not sure if I'm ready to face my people again after all of that.", she lamented. "What do I do to find myself again?"

"You begin by letting go of the guilt," the human prince looked at her, hopeful that he'd be able to get through her. "You start by choosing to live for them."

She sighed dejectedly. "But I wasn't strong enough to prevent all of this...", the elf reasoned out.

That struck a chord within Arthas as memories of his past life and the lengths he went through to make sure he does the same thing over and over to make reckless decisions that were consequential. "Strength is not just power, Sylvanas.", the human prince advised her, opening his palm as if to give her the answer she seekerd. "It's the very will to live. To live with the belief that you can do better for your people and to make sure that they still have a future to come by. That is why willpower tends to be the strongest weapon other than the powers or the magic we carry with ourselves."

She couldn't get why kept getting compassion from him, and wanted to know why. "After everything you did for my people, even when my own mistakes get in the way that you and Proudmoore had been doing for them...how can you forgive me so easily?", she professed to him again in disbelief and sorrow. "You had every right to be furious with me..."

He turned to look at her. "I was never angry with you, Sylvanas.", he professed, even though a part of him indeed felt it for her. "I was only afraid that you've lost your way completely."

The Ranger-General fell silent. She couldn't believe that she was hearing words from a human that had seen the worst that the world has to offer, using his own experience to help his comrades who needed the most.

After all, it was the Prince's ability to lead and inspire that earned him her people's respect. And she had no qualms professing that he two had earned hers long ago when he came to defend her homeland.

Sylvanas remembered a time when she had put her hand on his knee, where she received help that she never knew she needed the night before. She looked at him for a moment and to his shoulder, knowing it was as much an invitation as a gesture of comradery. She rested her elbow onto it and they watched as the human and elves below them continue to aid one another, and they stayed like that for a while.

Neither of them said anything else after that. There was no need to.

Meanwhile...

Falric felt disheartened at the sight before him.

After the Sunwell had been tainted, the surviving elves have begun to suffer on what they called 'magic addiction' where withdrawal symptoms are becoming common. And from what he had heard, it was becoming a problem to those who relied heavily onto them.

That and having lost their own homeland to the Scourge, Amani and Blackrock Clan must've demoralized them heavily. And stockpiles of grain and other foodstuffs from Stormwind have helped feed the refugees as they make attempts to mingle with the humans that they are previously indifferent of. Since Garithos himself is now fighting at the Tirisfal Glades, they Elves wouldn't have to worry about any form of racial prejudice.

Falric quickly spotted Liadrin leaning heavily against a wall of one of the houses in Blackwood. She looked awful in every sense as she struggled to move coherently. Concerned for her, the human captain rushed over to her side, gently wrapping his uninjured right arm around her waist to steady her.

"High Priestess, are you well?", he asked her in genuine wirry

Liadrin turned to him with a forced, small smile. "I am... managing," she replied, although her voice was weaker than he had ever heard it.

Falric noticed the tremor in her hand as she pushed a strand of hair away from her face. "What happened?"

"The... withdrawal," she managed to utter as she had her forehead, feeling a mild migraine. "The Sunwell... we are all feeling its absence."

That couldn't be good. From what he knew of the Quel'dorei, the elves are largely reliant on magic, or at least well-connected with it that they live by it. "Come," he began to pull her to her feet gently, "We'll get you to the manor. I believe we have received something that could help."

Supporting her, he carefully guided her through the streets of Blackwood to Belore'dorei. Inside, he led her to a quiet corner. Jaina and the others have been distributing it, but Falric felt that the Priestess needed it urgently. He carefully picked out a mana crystal, observing its glow with wonder for a moment before he turned to Liadrin.

"This is for you," Falric offered, presenting the crystal to her. "It may help with the symptoms of your... condition."

The brunette elf's eyes widened as she took it in her trembling hands. Using a technique taught to her by Vandellor despite it being looked down upon by her people, she began to slowly siphon the crystal of its Mana and she began to feel relief and the symptoms going away. "You have no idea how much this means to me, Captain," she gratefully lamented as she straightened herself up. "But I fear that my people and I are becoming a burden to you and to Prince Arthas."

The human's face grew stern. "Never think that," he insisted. "In times like this, we all need the help we could get. Especially from one another."

She gave him a sincere smile. "Thank you, Captain. I won't forget your kindness.". Liadrin took a moment to study his left arm, noticing the healing of his wounds. "Your injuries are mending," she commented softly where he nodded, flexing his fingers slightly to show his improving condition.

"I have you and your people to thank, and I should be back in the field soon," he said, trying to lighten the mood. But Liadrin remained downcast, and she let out a heavy with as she took her time to reflect onto herself.

"I... I fear I cannot say the same for myself," she confessed. Falric quickly grew concerned as she continued, "The Light... I can't feel it as I once did. It's as if it has abandoned me, or perhaps it's my faith that has wavered."

"Why would you say that?" he asked gently. "You've survived so much, High Priestess. The fall of Quel'thalas, the loss of so many, and yet, you stood firm. That by itself takes an immense amount of strength."

Liadrin could remember the final moments of the people of whom he was closest to and Silvermoon's fall, remembering how that demon killed Vandellor. "But I could not truly find myself reconciling with that, Captain. Vandellor is gone, our home is lost. I have devoted my life to the Light and the protection of my brethren, how could I pride myself with such values when I cannot even hold onto what is most precious to me?"

Falric felt his own heart aching at her pain. He didn't know how to respond in the way he could for her but that didn't dissuade him from trying. "By thinking that not all is lost," he suggested hopefully. "You people still hold on to the belief that they can go home one day, and you should too because it gives faith to yourself. It is not measured by the absence of the Light, but by the way you carry on in its absence."

The High Priestess looked down, feeling a part of her wanting to believe in those words that clashed with her own declining faith in the light despite her attempts to believe in it. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I've seen it," the human captain answered her earnestly. "I've seen the strength others have, the compassion they show to your people, the hope you give even when you have none left for yourself." He paused, remembering the lengths his Prince went through. "And I believe you are capable of it as well."

He is starting to sound like Vandellor..., the Priestess thought. She could remember similar lessons given to her by the High Priest ever since she was rescued by him. And it felt as if he spoke through the human ally before her.

"You are more than your connection to the Light, my lady. A symbol of resilience, of the human, or rather the elven spirit. And if the Light has truly left you, then I dare say it's the Light that has lost something far greater."

She couldn't help but nod bashfully at those comforting words. "I...I wish you are right, Captain..."

Falric smiled gave her a light pat in the back as he moved to to help distribute the crystals and potions to the elves along with his men to those who needed it, espe ggcially the very young, the elderly and those who are already in poor health. Looking at her crystal, Liadrin moved in to help with the others as Jaina spoke to one of the Kirin Tor mages, instructing him to pass her thanks to Antonidas.

Hours later...

The human residents at Blackwood and the Quel'dorei refugees watched as the men of the 1st Legion lined up in formation and prepared to head back to Lordaeron City "We wish that we could have stayed longer to take care of your people," Jaina lamented with regret. "But we have to head back to the capital and then to Dalaran, and make sure the Kirin Tor are prepared against the incoming Scourge and Orc offensive."

"The last thing we need now is for Dalaran's mages to be among of the Scourge as well as a larger threat that would be summoned if they managed to get their way.", the Prince agreed with her. "We'll come back for your people once our work is done, and hopefully, we might be able to find a way to alleviate or deal with the predicament you and your people are in, Ranger-Lord."

Lor'themar nodded understandingly, but likewise trusted their human allies for their word. "Our people are strong, Prince Arthas," he assured him, gesturing to his people and men that included Liadrin, Solanar and Falon. "Our scouts will keep a watchful eye on Quel'thalas, and you would be informed immediately should the Scourge march here from the north. Should you need aid when the time comes, we stand ready to assist in the way we can."

Arthas never thought he would heard those very words from them, given his own past decisions against them. But it was a welcome relief that help sweep away the doubt and fear within him.

"It is much appreciated, Lord Theron," Arthas gratefully replied. "We'll see to it that it's returned in earnest. And when the time comes, we'll take back Quel'thalas."

Liadrin looked at him with gratitude, her hand reaching her chest. "Your highness," she uttered respectfully, "that means more to us than you could ever know."

"Consider it a promise," Jaina chimed in support. "We may have our differences but our wishes align to that of our people. In time, we can fully rebuild bridge that existed between us."

"I am also sending a contingent of my best men to stay behind and support your forces," Arthas further announced, with Thassarian walking beside Lor'themar with Koltira as the two men shared a nod of respect. "And Lady Calia will ensure that additional supplies and aid reach you regularly."

Before Arthas could say any more, dozens of Quel'dorei Farstriders and mages moved over to Arthas where Lor'themar gave Jennalla a nod of approval of what they intend to do. "Please allow us to assist you of your journey, Prince Arthas," the Farstrider offered as she and her kin placed their fists over their hearts as commitment to their cause. "You have done with the best of your ability to aid us in our time of need, and we have little to offer in return other than our skills and our determination to save not just our people, but to those we can still save."

Arthas and Jaina were hesitant, as the Quel'dorei needed all the men they have to conduct their own campaign to free Silvermoon. However, Lor'themar stepped forward to voice his support. "Consider it as a token of our gratitude, Prince Arthas. You will need all the help you could get.", he professed.

The human prince turned to Jaina, Falric and Marwyn, wanting to know their opinions first. All of them expressed their approval, and Arthas made his decision. "This gesture will not be forgotten," he promised. "We'll make sure your people will be provided for."

But before they could go and begin their march, a figure walked towards them, looking stoic with a grace that belied her form. Her Farstrider uniform still bore the scratches and damage from the defense of Silvermoon. Her bow and her quiver were strapped onto her, and her look of determination caused Jaina and Arthas not to think twice in what she wished to do. "I wish to come with you to Dalaran," she announced which the humans and elves around them looked at her in surprise.

Jaina and Arthas exchanged glances before Arthas spoke up. "Are you sure, Sylvanas," the Archmage gently asked, concerned of her well-being. "But what about your people?"

She looked down for a moment, carefully choosing their words. "My people are strong. But we can't just sit here and do nothing, and as for my place...my place is where it can do the most good," she replied. "There is much I needed to do, but...not here. And I hope that in time, by coming with you, the journey may have something to offer me as well."

Even though Sylvanas wanted nothing more than to end Kel'thuzad right here, her thirst of vengeance is nothing compared to the concern she still had with her remaining blood. Her younger sister whom she forsakened following Lirath's death. She wanted to know how she is doing, and wether or not she had reached to safety when the Scourge are heading over to Dalaran next.

Not to mention everything she had owed them in these past days.

"My people are safe, for now," she continued. "But I... I cannot face them as I am. Not yet." She paused, looking at her tainted hand. "I need to understand what has happened to me, and to find my purpose in all of this," she admitted softly. "And in doing so, I can find the strength to return to my people and lead them as they need. I need to believe in something greater than just vengeance or survival."

The two studied her for a moment before Arthas gave Jaina a nod of approval. "If that's what you truly wish," she said. "Then who are we to turn you away?"

Sylvanas took a deep breath, and looked upon the two humans who have been close allies to her. "I'll see to it that this chance won't go to waste.", she vowed.

Arthas knew her decision to accompany them was not solely driven by duty but by the need to escape the painful memories that haunted her every moment in Quel'thalas.

"Lor'themar," she addressed the Ranger-Lord as she stepped closer to him. "In my absence, I entrust my responsibilities to you. Keep our people safe, and we'll reconvene when the time is right."

The Ranger-Lord nodded. "As you wish, Sylvanas," he replied respectfully. He saw the regret and the wish to atone in her, and he was ready to support her, even if it meant carrying some of that burden himself.

The Farstriders looked at their leader with both surprise and reverence. Jenalla stepped forward, followed by Cyndia. "Then it's only natural that you'll be the one leading us, Lady Sylvanas," she declared. "Wherever you lead, we will follow."

Sylvanas could feel her heart ache in both pride and sorrow. After everything she had put them through, they're willing to be led by her because they still believed in her.

"Thank you,", she uttered in reply with a slight bow as a steed was offered to her by one of the villagers.

As the 1st Legion and their newfound Farstriders left, the human residents and the Quel'dorei refugees chanted safe travels and farewells to the departing group. Jaina and Arthas' hearts swelled at the show of support and admiration, Falric shared a look with Liadrin who was smiling at him. "May the Light guide your path.", she uttered for him and the group as they left the town.

A day later at Lordaeron...

Sylvanas was tense at the sight of the people in Lordaeron City. They all look vigilant as they lined up for their grain rations and guards are practically everywhere. She could still see the visible damage inflicted to the city where its walls are being repaired, and she could see funeral pyres being set up by the troops and civilians as they burned their dead, likely to prevent any resurrections by the Scourge.

"It looked like the city had seen better days.", the elf mused aloud, watching as Quel'dorei refugees that had arrived via portals also lined up for aid and are being inspected by the local garrison for any sign of infection along with the humans and dwarves. "From the looks of it, they managed to put up quite a fight."

"The Scourge and the Orc attack gave people a siege mentality, especially when it resulted to King Terenas becoming incapacitated and numerous lives lost.", Marwyn informed her as they rode along the streets. "We're already stretched thin as we speak, and resources have been struggling to make ends meet for the people despite aid from Stormwind and Kul'tiras."

She agreed with that assessment, watching as the citizens have also been resorting to bartering with other vendors and infected grain being secured and moved to be destroyed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Halduron sitting idly with his men as their Dragonhawks were tied to a post in what is supposed to be the stable for horses, and she told Marwyn to go ahead as she moved to talk to her friend and comrade.

The Ranger-Captain looked up at her and was both elated and relieved to see her well, rushing over to her with his men. "Thank the Sunwell, you're alive!", Halduron beseeched as patted her shoulders. "After what happened at Sunfall, we were growing worried that you were lost to us."

Sylvanas was frozen for moment when the terrible memories from that place came back to taunt her but she shook her head. "Could have been better...", she remarked half-heartedly. "Although, our home is lost to the Scourge."

She could tell that he wasn't aware of her role in what happened to the Sunwell and she was torn of telling him or keeping the truth from him. And she ultimately elected for the latter, finding herself unable to admit her mistake when she already made several serious errors before.

Halduron looked disheartened as he placed both his hands on his waist. "Aye, we received word of what happened and of King Anasterian's condition.", he affirmed dejectedly as they looked at their people looking lost. "And while we are fortunate that Prince Arthas had allowed our people to stay here, we are not unlabeled with suspicion given the previous war as many of the humans made gossips that we're going to abandon them again, even though Lady Calia has been a gracious host for us."

The Farstrider leader sighed. "Same for ours back at Blackwood where their ruler wasn't trying to be a decent one.", she recounted the rather cruel words that were inflicted to their beleaguered people. "Prince had to intervene to let Lor'themar borrow the town at the meantime until we could somehow free Quel'thalas."

"It's much appreciated we can't rely on their good graces forever, Sylvanas.", Halduron pointed out. "Because I fear our people may be labeled a burden from their eyes."

Sylvanas bit her lip as she thought on ways on how to dispel the illusion of her people being unable to help themselves. "What do you think we should do, Halduron?"

"You are our Ranger-General, Sylvanas.", he clarified for her. "I was hoping you have an idea."

She took a long moment to think, looking over to the Quel'dorei warriors awaiting her orders and to the conscription center where Lordaeron's able-bodied men are being recruited. And might just knew what to do.

Maybe also defy what they believed at her people. "Aid the Alliance in ways you can.", she ordered him. "Lord Fordring would need whatever troops to push back the dead. And if they succeed, the sooner we could get help to take back Quel'thalas."

He was skeptical of her orders. "But wouldn't the others oppose?", the Ranger-Captain reasoned out in concern. "They still resent the elves for leaving them as well as Anasterian's less than favorable reception to them when they stepped in to help defend Quel'thalas before."

"What else can we do, Halduron?", Sylvanas retorted. "We have to show the Alliance that we aren't helpless nor we are taking advantage of their position. Because once this is over, we can't let the Quel'dorei stand alone like how our King had done."

"But shouldn't we wait for Prince Kael'thas' orders?", he apprehensively pointed out.

His superior gave him a scornful glare. "He wasn't even there when the Scourge invaded," Sylvanas scoffed with resentment. "If it wasn't for Prince Arthas and the Alliance, we'd probably be under Dar'khan's yoke." She stared hard at Halduron, who felt small at the gaze of her blue eyes.

Halduron took a step back. "But Lady Sylvanas," he began hesitantly, "acting without his approval may be dangerous, now that the remaining Quel'dorei answer to him without Anasterian or the Convocation."

"I'll deal with him if he starts asking questions and I'll take whatever heat he's going to throw at us.", Sylvanas assured him. "For now, we have a duty to help those who truly stand by our side."

It took Halduron a moment to decide to trust her judgement. "Very well," he conceded with a nod. "We'll aid the Alliance as you command. If it would also prove to the others that we are not what they believe that we are."

"I'm sure you do, Halduron.", she told him. "I'll ask Prince if he could assign you to Bronzebeard's command. At least he would be more open to have you and your men as part of his forces."

Feeling sure of her assurances, Halduron left with his men as they prepared themselves. And as she turned to join Arthas and the others, she couldn't help but wonder if she was truly ready to face whatever awaited them, and if she had the strength to carry the burden of her newfound fate.

At Lordaeron Keep...

In the medical wing, Calia watched over her father Terenas, who is still unconscious, during her break as Regent of Lordaeron. She clutched his hand tightly, hoping sooner or later, he would regain his senses and lead his kingdom in these trying times.

That is until she found his heir standing before the doorway, waiting for Calia to finished as she looked up to him in relief and joy upon seeing him again.

"Arthas!", Calia beamed as she hugged her brother, who returned the embrace tightly. "You're back!"

He patted her back in back. "I am, Callie.", Arthas replied affectionately before they let go. "Though I have to say that the defense of Quel'thalas could have been better."

The Princess nodded. "Lord Goodwin and the others are already taking care of the High Elves that had taken refuge while Lord Fordring is overseeing military operations, with Gavinrad and a contingent bring sent to Brill to retake it from the Scourge and destroy their infected warehouses carrying infected grain."

Her brother gave her an approving nod. "Aye, I've heard that Highlord Morgraine and the others are containing the undead in numerous fronts. King Varian has sent in more aid, although they had to deal with Lady Prestor's meddling, which makes the others wonder as to what is her deal. I trust that none of the nobility is doing anything with you?"

Her response was a tired sigh. "The nobility have been pressing that I get a suitor out of concern that something happens with the Crown Prince.", she recounted in both anger and dismay.

Arthas frowned at that. "I suppose it's their way to try and weasel their way into the royal family.", he uttered in the resentment Calia have. "I'll have Captain Valonforth to be your personal bodyguard to make sure that they'll have second thoughts trying to do just that. You have my word."

Calia appreciated his support. "Thanks, Arthas. It just felt so... overwhelming but it's useful experience whenever I am needed to lead our people."

The Prince only gave her a nod, grasping the hand of his unconscious father as Arthas moved closer to place his forehead onto Terenas' forearm. I have returned, father. Although I was not able to prevent the fall of the High Elves' homeland. In spite of their choice to leave, I will not leave innocents and their families be torn apart by an enemy who marches indiscriminately, and I will ensure they are well provided for in the face of such calamities. It may not be able to make up for what I have done before, but to give them a chance to live and to be free from such fate, is but a soothing balm within me. And I will choose to do the same.

Arthas raised his head to find his father's sleeping face. I may never be the King that you hoped me to be, but it never meant that I would refuse to try. I will do everything in my power to make sure everything that we have worked for will not fall again. As we march on Dalaran, I pray for guidance. From the Light. From you, that we may be able to stand stall against this ravenous tide.

He let go of his father's hand as Calia moved closer to him, providing comfort of her own to him. Fate is a funny thing, isn't it father?, he thought with a mental chuckle. You never know how things are going to work out and I could tell it happens to all of us.

He finally stood up to face Calia, looking determined as he began to speak again. "Call upon the Council and inform them of a meeting that will take place by tomorrow. For now, the 1st Legion will resupply and prepare for its journey to Dalaran.", he instructed Calia, who nodded understandingly.

They still have once chance to make sure the Legion doesn't get here. And they needed to act now.

Three days later...

Fortunately, the journey to Dalaran didn't take that long, largely because Jaina and Kirin Tor conjured enough portals to bring the 1st Legion into the city. After giving Tirion, Calia and Goodwin vitally needed instructions, Arthas and the 1st Legion have left for the city despite urges from the Council to remain and lead Lordaeron.

It felt surreal to arrive here again, like he had with Quel'thalas before. The last time he saw Dalaran before this time, it was a floating city close to Icecrown where the Alliance would stage offensive operations against the Scourge.

He could notice that most civilians are being evacuated, moved to the either Kul'tiras or Stormwind as Lordaeron already had its hands full trying to provide for its own people and the Quel'dorei refugees they've taken them.

"Your warnings have not reached deaf ears, Prince Arthas.", they heard to find the voice of Grand Magus Antonidas, where he held his signature staff as several Archmages flanked him. Among them are Modera and Ansirem Runeweaver of the Council of Six.

Which led Jaina, Sylvanas and Arthas to presume that Kael'thas and Aethas are now returning to Quel'thalas, or rather going Blackwood to rejoin their people.

"Master Antonidas.", he greeted with a slight bow which Antonidas raised his hand at him slightly.

"There is no need for such formalities,", he respectfully told the Prince as he looked at Jaina, who have him a nod along with a smile. "Though I'm afraid I would have preferred to have met all of you in more favorable circumstances."

Arthas sighed. "It's a thought that we all share, Grand Magus.", he looked over to the magi present. "Is the book of Medivh fully secure?"

The Grand Magus conjured a protection to show the Book being guarded by several magi and hovering harmlessly like it is the most sacred object they had. "Stored in one of the most secure vaults within Violet Citadel.", he bellowed. "No one but a member of the Council is allowed access. And the Citadel has been manned considerably by both elite troops and Dalaran's finest specimens."

The projection faded, and Arthas couldn't help but feel a bit relaxed at the measures that the Kirin Tor had made. "The 1st Legion will assist in the fortifying of the city.", the Prince looked over to his men. "We'll reinforce the garrison and we'll have to prepare for a siege. The enemy is nothing like the Horde during the previous war, but it doesn't mean that it's going to be any better."

Antonidas accepted the Prince's offer and patted his shoulder. "The calm before the storm is upon us. And the storm itself is unforgiving...but not incapable of being weathered', the old man lamented before he looked at Arthas sympathetically. "My thoughts and my prayers for the good health of your father, Prince Arthas."

He lowered his head as he recalled his father's still unresponsive form. "Thank you, Master Antonidas.", Arthas gratefully replied for the support.

Arthas then turned to one of the Archmages behind Antonidas where he recognized the red-haired man before him and approached him civilly. "Prince Arthas.", Rhonin greeted him as he offered the younger man his hand, which Arthas promptly took in a handshake.

"Rhonin.", the Prince replied back as the two men looked at one another with respect. "It appears this might be the first time fighting alongside with you."

The red-haired Archmage nodded with a smirk. "Indeed it is...", the man suddenly felt a strange feeling of...malefic energy coming from Arthas' right arm underneath the gauntlets and gloves covering it when he took his hand. But a nod by Jaina urged him to trust the Prince, which he did. "Your deeds back at Quel'thalas have reached Dalaran. It meant much for Vereesa to know many of her people are safe and protected, and I trust that ours would also be in safe hands."

"I wouldn't be so inclined to say that with certainty.", Arthas replied with humility as he looked over at his surroundings but he looked at Rhonin with a mournful gaze. "I...I apologize for not being able to save your family at Andorhal. Had I knew better, I would have came sooner before Kel'thuzad and the Scourge went there.

Rhonin put an appreciative hand at the Prince's shoulder, though the sorrow in his face was slight. "You have done what you could have, Prince Arthas. With Lordaeron's help, we can end this war right here and there before it could claim any more families and loved ones."

Arthas gave him a curt nod in return and Rhonin prepared to guide the Prince into Violet Citadel to discuss their defensive strategy but Arthas noticed that Sylvanas is no longer with them. "Where has Lady Sylvanas gone?", he wondered aloud as Jennalla and Cyndia were also caught off guard at her sudden disappearance.

Meanwhile...

Sylvanas couldn't help but figured that she had split up with them without letting them know, figuring that she needed time to reflect onto herself as she walked along the mostly deserted streets of Dalaran.

Her own decisions came back to haunt her. Her deeds, as well as the memory of Quel'thalas burning, the deaths of Anya, Velonara and Nathanos at Sunfall, and eventually her decision to kill Kel'thuzad in a blind rage that tainted the Sunwell, and her people suffering for it.

And now, she just wanted to know if Vereesa was all right, despite what happened all those fifteen years ago.

Sylvanas couldn't tell wether or not Vereesa would ever forgive her for what she had done to her people. How she had failed all of them.

"Sylvanas?"

Almost instantly she froze upon hearing the voice that she refused to hear or speak to again after all these years. She looked to find her sister, wearing the ruby necklace their mother had given to each of the siblings. She looked speechless as she wore long-fitting black dress with a red sash tied around her waist, and her mouth was left agape at the sight of her sister again.

"Vereesa?", she tentatively called out to her.

Before the she knew it, she saw a blur come crashing down to her where its arms embraced her tightly.

Vereesa's arms wrapped around Sylvanas tightly, her own tears soaking through Sylvanas's cloak. "I thought I had lost you," she choked out with a pain that had been festering for fifteen long years. "When we heard of Silvermoon...I didn't know what to think. I couldn't bear to lose another sister."

Sylvanas stiffened at first, taken aback by the sudden embrace, but then she felt the weight of her own regret and sorrow. Her own arms tentatively wrapped around her younger sister, feeling the warmth she had not felt in what felt like an eternity. "Vereesa," she whispered as her voice cracked. "I'm so sorry. I never wanted this. I never wanted any of this."

Vereesa pulled back slightly to look into her eyes for any trace of the anger and bitterness that had driven them apart. Instead, she saw only sorrow and the echoes of a shared loss. "What happened to you?" she asked softly.

"I made so many mistakes, Vereesa" she wailed amidst the sobs. "Mistakes that I can never take back. And I just wanted to know if you're..."

Vereesa rubbed her back as she consoled her. "Shhh...", she whispered to her. "It's all right, Sylvanas... it's alright..."

But then, another presence came between them. "Aunt Sylvanas? Is that you?", a young voice called out to her, seeing the similarities between her and his Aunt Vereesa.

Sylvanas caught sight of the half-elf boy standing a few steps away, his curious gaze fixed upon them. She could see the resemblance to Alleria in his features, and something within her chest stirred—a blend of joy and sorrow. "Who is he?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Vereesa went behind the boy to officially introduce him to her older sister. "This is Arator," she introduced him as she placed her hand on the boy's shoulder. "He's Alleria and Turalyon's son."

The elder elf felt as if a lightning bolt struck her. "Alleria's son," she uttered as she took a step towards the boy. He looked up at her with curiosity and hesitance, and she couldn't help but reach out and touch his cheek. "Hello, Arator.", she greeted him, even though she could not conceal her joy and her own sorrow.

The young boy looked up at her with innocent eyes. "Hello, Aunt Sylvanas," he greeted though he was a bit shy..

Vereesa's smile grew as she watched the two together. "And," she added, placing a protective hand over her slightly rounded belly. "It seems we have company sooner or later..."

She looked at her with shock. "Vereesa...", she looked down at her sister's stomach and noticed its curve when she trailed her hand affectionately onto it. "Are you...?",

The younger sibling smiled at her bashfully. "Another Windrunner or two is on its way.", Vereesa quipped at her. "Rhonin and I have been expecting for quite some time..."

Her sister's eyes grew wide, and she couldn't hold back the sob that escaped her lips. She had never felt so much joy and regret at the same time. "I...I'm so happy for you," she whispered. "And I'm so sorry for everything. For not being there."

Vereesa's expression softened, and she leaned in to embrace her sister once more. "You're here now," she assured her. "That's all that matters."

The two sisters clung to each other as they have Arator join in the embrace. Meanwhile, Arthas, Jaina, and Rhonin watched the heartwarming reunion from a respectful distance, smiling at them as they gave the sisters the space they needed to heal old wounds.

For Sylvanas, she didn't know that she so much to fight for, other than her people and for herself. But her family as well.

And nothing will take that from her.

Chapter Text

This was not the scene Kael'thas Sunstrider had anticipated when he heard of the undead invasion of his homeland.

He was certainly disheartened and horrified at the plight their people had went through. Rommath had went to Dalaran personally to inform Kael of what happened to his kingdom during his absence after it was attacked by a combination of Blackrock Orcs, Amani Trolls and the Scourge.

So when he, Rommath and Aethas Sunreaver went to Blackwood where many of his people have taken refuge and under the protection of the Crown of Lordaeron, he felt that he had failed his people by not being there when they needed him the most.

It didn't help the Alliance have left for Dalaran a few hours earlier from what the outer sentries have told him. And some of his people more or less were not thrilled to see him due to the timing when they made their way to Belore'thalas.

"Look who decided to show up.", one of the refugees whispered in sarcastic anger.

"Of all times he could've been here, he's choosing now?", another spoke up.

"He must've loved the Kirin Tor more than his own people!", one of them exclaimed as he took care for his ailing father.

As Kael, Rommath and Aethas reached the erstwhile Quel'dorei headquarters, he felt a blend of guilt and dread at the sight of his people trying to survive after being informed of the Sunwell's corruption. When he went inside to find both elf and human workers renovating the building, he looked to find Lor'themar and Liadrin in the main office, having finished writing a list detailing what their people needed to Thassarian, who took his leave shortly upon seeing the elf prince's arrival.

The Ranger-Lord looked back and immediately straightened himself up. "Ishnu-alah, my Prince," Lor'themar greeted with reverence, though his tone was weary. "We've been expecting you."

Liadrin couldn't hide her own dismay, however. "Where were you when we needed you?" the High Priestess interjected in disbelief and bitterness at the Prince.

Kael felt his heart sink. He had no excuses to offer that could justify his absence when he had focused on his obligations as a member of the Kirin Tor's Council of Six. "I'm here now," he replied solemnly as he averted their gazes momentarily. "How is my father?"

The elves present were unsure how to respond to that. The Priestess' expression had softened slightly, but the pain was still present. After all, no child would ever want to see their parent in such a state after seeing Vandellor fall before her. "We've done what we could," she lamented regretfully. "He is unresponsive but alive, sustaining heavy injuries from defending the Sunwell. The healers are tirelessly working on him, but..."

She didn't get to finish as the Prince took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worse. "Take me to him," he requested them where they led him through the corridors and when they reached the chamber where Anasterian lay on the bed, looking so frail and helpless.

"What happened?", the elven prince asked, looking up to Lor'themar and Liadrin who looked down somberly. Strangely, Sylvanas should have been with them as the head of the Quel'dorei armies but he shrugged it off momentarily for the current matter at hand.

The Ranger-Lord cleared his throat to recount what had happened. "During the evacuation at Silvermoon, your father and Captain Thalorien remained behind to guard the Sunwell," he explained to him, sounding as if he had be struck with the most scarring memory imaginable. "The Scourge, the Orcs and the Amani had breached our defenses, and we were barely holding them back. Your father knew that the loss of the Sunwell would be catastrophic for our people, and he fought valiantly alongside Thalorien, refusing to leave his post even when the enemy was upon him."

Kael felt a pang of guilt at the mention of Thalorien. He had always considered the Royal Guard Captain among the most loyal to the House of Sunstrider and hearing him die defending their lifeline brought him much sadness as much pride.

"And then...a demon called Mal'Ganis arrived alongside with the traitor, Magister Dar'khan Drathir, who let the enemy in within our lands by murdering our Magisters and disabling the Ban'dinoriel," the Ranger-Lord continued, his eyes now narrowing in resentment of the monstrous being. "He had the audacity to challenge your father directly. Despite his efforts, Anasterian was grievously injured in the fight. And the Sunwell became corrupted, by Ke'thuzad, who led the Scourge and transformed into something monstrous that I never see before."

The Ranger-Lord chose to withhold Sylvanas' involvement in the Sunwel's corruption, as per Prince Arthas' request while Kael's eyes narrowed in anger at the mention of the expelled Archmage and Council member, wishing that Antonidas decided to kill him rather than simply exiling him when his experiments became known.

He gave out his next part of the narration. "The Alliance, under the command of Prince Arthas and Lady Jaina, arrived just in time to provide us with the reinforcements needed to stall the Scourge's advance," he recounted in both admiration and relief. "Their efforts and their tactics were valuable in defeating the enemy forces in several encounters, allowing many of our people to be evacuated to Lordaeron and other neighboring human lands. Without them, our losses would have been catastrophic."

Arthas and Jaina?, Kael thought curiously. What made them decide to aid the Quel'dorei despite my father's reception?. Deciding to change the subject, the Prince then asked a rather harrowing question. "How many of our kin have perished?", he inquired fearfully and curiously.

Lor'themar paused, for a moment as he looked over at Liadrin, Rommath and Aethas hesitantly. "From what we have been able to ascertain and through estimations that we are yet to verify, a third of our people have fallen," he admitted, which took the two mages back in disbelief while Kael squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he registered that information. "It is a high number, my Prince, but it could have been so much worse without their aid."

The Prince took a moment to think. The Ranger-Lord was right, but he couldn't help but have the need for a certain Ranger-General to explain what had happened as to why Quel'thalas had fallen under her watch. "Where is Sylvanas?" he inquired. "And Captain Brightwing?"

"Sylvanas and Halduron have went in separate ways," Lor'themar revealed. "Halduron and a squad of Dragonhawk Riders escorted our people to Lordaeron, ensuring their safety during the journey and are currently stationed at their capital. While Sylvanas and a contingent of Farstriders had went with the Alliance, intending to aid in the defense of Dalaran."

Kael raised a suspicious eyebrow as he thought of the Ranger-General's choice in going with them. "Her timing is suspect." he wondered aloud, sounding a bit accusing. "Did she leave as to not explain herself at what happened to the kingdom's under her watch?"

The High Priestess gave her Prince a frown at this audacity but kept herself quiet.

The Ranger-Lord shook his head. "No, my Prince," he assured him. "Her reasons are her own, but she has never shied away from a fight. She seeks to serve where she can do the most good for our people."

Fortunately, the Prince seemed to accept this reasoning, although he still intends to speak to her when the opportunity presented itself. He sighed again, though the feeling of unease remained. "If the Sunwell is indeed corrupted by the Scourge, then we have to see for ourselves if there is anything that could be done once we survey the damage. The corruption could be fatal to our kin, and I need to see it for myself."

"If we are to surmise, Dar'khan is consolidating his power with his new allies within Silvermoon.", Rommath then spoke up, knowing that their homeland is swarmed by Amani trolls who are likely also trying to consolidate the lands that they claim to be their ancestral homes, along with the Scourge forces that are still present. "We should be able to keep a low profile as he and the Amani have matters of their own that we could use to our advantage."

His superior accepted the reasoning, looking over to them. "Then I will be needing volunteers to assist in this endeavor.", Kael then declared, feeling the need to make up for his negligence by searching any means to purify the Sunwell or satiate their addiction to magic. "To those who wish to do so, step forward."

Despite their initial reception, several elves stepped up. Among them were Liadrin, Rommath, Aethas, Solanar and Falon, who looked determined to help their people in any way that they still could. "We leave at dawn. We'll have to make sure that we are thoroughly prepared and supplied.", he continued before he looked over at Lor'themar, who was awaiting his instructions. "I will leave you in charge of our people in my absence, Lord Theron. See to it that their welfare is attended to."

He gave him a respective bow in response, feeling slightly overwhelmed of new his role. "I shall see to it, my Prince.", he promised.

Three days earlier, Lordaeron Keep...

The Council chamber was tense as they awaited the Crown Prince's return from his expedition to Quel'thalas. For some, they were relieved to see him and the majority of his men return home safe. But for others, they were a bit slighted as the defense of the elf kingdom had failed and from they're dealing with a refugee crisis when a sea of displaced elves poured in to Lordaeron, or at least territories that remained in royal control.

They heard the door open to find Arthas, who looked weary as Calia, Tirion, Goodwin, Gavinrad, and other officials present stood up but a hand from Arthas commanded them to remain seated as he was followed behind closely by Jaina, Falric and Marwyn. "Prince Arthas.", Tirion was the first to speak up as Calia offered her seat to her brother, but he chose to remain standing.

Arthas took a deep breath for a moment before exhaling and rubbing his temples. "We have returned from Quel'thalas, although the results could have been better from our campaign.", he professed for them.

Lord Percival, a member of his father's Chamber of Deputies, cleared his throat. "The amount of refugees from the north coming in droves are staggering, your Highness.", he reported in both concern and disappointment. "We do not have the sufficient means in providing for their welfare."

"The others have already been evacuated to neighboring Ironforge, Kul'tiras and Stormwind at Admiral Proudmoore's behest.", Jaina spoke up to alleviate their concerns. "As such, we do not have to worry about more of Lordaeron's resources being stretched further."

The Prince gave Jaina a mental thank you for her statements, before he decided to change the subject, looking over at the former Silver Hand Paladin."How are the other fronts, Lord Fordring?", he looked over Tirion, looking at the map laid out before them. The red X marks indicate the fronts that Lordaeron and its forces have spread out within the Kingdom.

Tirion cleared his throat as he began to give his reports to the Prince, looking at it with a calculating eye. "Reports have been improving, Your Highness.", he reported with a satisfactory tone. "Highlord Morgraine and his forces have managed to drive off the undead from Southshore and are in the process of fortifying their positions for any possible counter-attacks. However, more undead began to converge from the northwest from the former Alteraci lands, many of them being former members of the Syndicate where Generals Abbendis and Garithos are struggling to contain them at Tyr's Hand but we cannot risk diverting more divisions from other fronts at the possibility of a breakthrough by the undead."

Clicking his tongue in mild frustration, Arthas looked up to face him, looking firm in his expression. "Do we have any special units available to reinforce them?", the Prince looked over at Tirion, who cupped his chin in deep thought.

"Lord George and Lord Tyrosus had established a task force made up among the most promising knights and members of the Silver Hand.", the older man told him, sounding hopeful and interested regarding the new group. "As we have not officially designated it as a military unit within the army, they are referred to as Argent Company, Your Highness."

Tirion placed an argent-colored insignia onto the map, before it was joined by a crimson-colored insignia of Lordaeron in a white background. "The other established unit on the other hand, was more determined, if not outright vengeful of the attack made by the Scourge and the Orcs on the capital and of our king.", he further explained, now sounding concerned and skeptical of the group. "We have designated it as the Scarlet Detachment at the moment, and is led by Abbendis' daughter, Brigitte and High Priest Fairbanks."

A feeling of deja vu coarsed through Arthas. He was more than familiar of the feud between the radical, 'purist' Scarlet Crusade and the more 'moderate' Argent Dawn, and later Argent Crusade, particularly the former as he constantly felt his own minions fight against them for control of Lordaeron and even observed its own battles against the Forsaken, which should be non-existent if their founder is amongst the living. However, considering that both factions exist because they were not under the command of a central government when Lordaeron fell before, Arthas felt confident that it wouldn't have reached to the point that these two factions would cause any rifts within the military structure.

"Very well.", Arthas conceded with a sigh. "See to it that the morale is maintained and our resources strictly rationed. Risking famine is out of the question when the farmlands are heavily monitored for any infection."

The council complied with the Prince's orders before he spoke up again. "What of the kingdoms within the Alliance?", he asked again.

"King Varian and Stormwind have pledged troops in retaking of Southshore with Highlord Morgraine, and are establishing a forward base in Alterac near the Tirisfal Glades that they referred to as Chillwind Point.", Calia reported with relief and hope as she continued to give her report. "Kul'tiras is heavily monitoring the harbors while patrolling our shores and heavily surveyed them for any possible agents of the undead that could spread the plague while Ironforge under Muradin and Baelgun have sent in detachments and additional weaponry to reinforce the kingdom's defense."

For once, Arthas felt respite at the help they're getting, especially since Quel'thalas had recently fallen. "Any word from Gilneas and Stromgarde?"

Tirion looked grim as he addressed the Council. "Not very well, Your Highness. After the tragic loss of King Thoras, they are barely managing to hold their own borders against the invading ogres and the Alteraci Syndicate who took advantage of Galen's disadvantageous position," he reported. "As for Gilneas, despite our calls, King Greymane remains steadfast in his isolationist stance. He has refused to house refugees from either Lordaeron or Quel'Thalas and has not offered military support in our fight against the Scourge."

Surely enough, the rest were in disbelief rippled through the room, but that has to he somewhat expected from Genn. Before they could express it further, Gavinrad spoke up to ease their worries. "But Lord Crowley has gone against his own king's orders," he revealed to alleviate their apprehension. "He has sent us two brigades of Gilnean troops to bolster our defenses. So they aren't entirely neutral."

The Council looked surprised, but also conflicted between anger at Genn's inaction and gratitude for Crowley's defiance.

Shifting his attention, Arthas continued, "Dalaran will be the next of our priorities. If the Scourge managed to overtake the Kirin Tor and its mages serving them, it could be catastrophic for all of us." He could see the Council members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. "I intend to lead the 1st Legion to Dalaran to stand alongside them."

Of course, this didn't sit well with the Council members, growing into a protest. "Your Highness, we can't spare our forces after the loss of Quel'thalas!" Lord Valdemar exclaimed. "Our own borders are strained, and we need you to hold Lordaeron together!"

Jaina stepped forward as she addressed the Council. "If Dalaran falls, the Scourge will gain unparalleled power than any of us could imagine," she argued fervently. "Lord Antonidas has repeatedly showed his commitment to the Alliance by aiding us already in containing the plague. And to do nothing when our city is going to be a battleground would be a great disservice."

The Council members exchanged uncertain glances just as Lord Goodwin skeptically spoke. "But what of the Quel'dorei, Prince Arthas? Their history with our people is... complicated. Can we truly trust them to stand with us, especially when their own kin, Prince Kael'thas, has yet to offer his support or even acknowledge our plight?"

The Prince and the Archmage exchanged brief glances. Kael did pledge his people to the Alliance after Quel'thalas fell before, but they had the misfortune of being under the command of Garithos back then.

"I am aware of the past," he assured them. "But the elves of Quel'thalas have suffered a grave loss of their own, and more than a few had pledged to support our forces." He paused, looking at each member of the Council in turn. "And if they wish to free their homeland just as we also wish to push back the enemy we are both fighting against, what better way than to fight alongside us now?"

Calia, listening fervently during the session, leaned forward in her chair. "And what of their welfare, Arthas?" she inquired gently. "Our stores are already stretched thin. Can we afford to support them?"

"We will manage, Calia.", he promised. "We can't to turn our backs on those in need,", he took a deep breath before he continued. "Besides, they're are not asking for our charity. They are willing to offer their own aid and contribute to our defense, which is why we shouldn't underestimate their desire to protect what is left of their homelands."

The Council whispered amongst as they debated the merits of Arthas' proposal while Tirion and Gavinrad were both impressed of the Prince's considerations for those who weren't his own people. Falric stepped forward to give his own points to support his claim. "The Prince speaks true. I have witnessed how the Farstriders fought, they proved that they are not the same elves that had abandoned us."

"What guarantees do we have that the elves won't do it again?", Lord Valdemar skeptically asked, raising an eyebrow. "Like how King Anasterian spat at our faces after countless of our own men died defending their land from the savage, Doomhammer?"

Of course, more than a few still held the elves in contempt of what happened before, despite Lady Alleria and the volunteers she had with her committing themselves into aiding the Alliance until they crossed through the Dark Portal. Which is probably why no one, or at least most, didn't speak against Garithos' decision to imprison and plan to execute the Blood Elves, not even the Kirin Tor who allowed the use of their dungeons to hold them.

"The truth is, my lords and ladies," Arthas continued, cutting through the tension in the room, "the elves of Quel'Thalas are already in dire straits. Their homeland has been ravaged, their people are scattered, and the Scourge continues to march upon them. They do not come to us with their heads held high, seeking to manipulate us," he emphasized. "They come to us with the same desperation that we face, and with the knowledge that their fate is now intertwined with our own. Ranger-General Sylvanas has pledged her Farstriders to the 1st Legion," he revealed to them, hoping for them to see reason, "and they are already fortified in the north, ready to respond to any signs of the Scourge's approach from that direction."

After a tense silence, the Council slowly nodded in reluctant agreement. Tirion and Gavinrad gave him a nod of approval while Calia offered a soft smile to her brother, seeing his commitment to help the beleaguered refugees.

"Very well, Prince Arthas," Lord Goodwin conceded after much consideration. "We'll try and provide for them in the best we can."

"But let us not forget the potential risks," Lord Percival spoke up cautiously. "Their presence within our borders may prove advantageous in future negotiations with whoever leads them. And they may be willing to concede to terms that favor Lordaeron in due time."

Valdemar nodded. "Indeed, Your Highness," he smoothly agreed. "But we make sure it is handled delicately. After all, we do not wish to appear weak or desperate to our new...allies."

Calia stood up angrily at their insinuation. "The elves of Quel'Thalas are not pawns to be used for political gain!" she exclaimed in dismay. "To treat them as anything less than equals would be an affront to the very principles our father, King Terenas, stood for."

Be fortunate that Sylvanas isn't here with us, Arthas and Jaina thought with narrowed eyes, especially since they've already seen what she did to Garithos and would certainly won't take that sentiment well.

The Council shifted uncomfortably at the Regent's outburst, but Tirion quickly gave his support. "Princess Calia speaks the truth," he remarked. "We will offer them what they need, and we will most certainly not exploit them for our own ends."

It would only be possible if every noble wouldn't have that mindset, however.

Turning to other matters, Arthas began to issue further instructions. "In regards to other matters of rationing and conscription," he continued, looking over at the Council. "The safety of our people is paramount. We will organize the distribution of food and supplies to ensure that all are cared for, and we'll bolster our forces with recruits from the surviving lands, in addition to the elves and dwarves that are already aiding us."

The room grew tense again as the mention of conscription brought up images of forced enlistments and the potential for unrest among the populace. "However, due to the actions of the likes of Lord Barov and Baron Rivendare along with Kel'thuzad's cult walk amongst the common citizen in our kingdom, I am considering that a clandestine police force will be set up the survey every unaffected territory within our borders."

The Council murmured among themselves, many looking concerned, including Jaina. The thought of spies and traitors hiding within their own society was already a delicate matter, and the idea of a secret police force was not one to be taken lightly. "But wouldn't the trust of our people be put to the test if such measures were to be placed, Prince Arthas?", Gavinrad inquired in concern. "They are already wary of the external forces looming over them, and to have their lives be constantly surveyed may prove detrimental in the long run."

Tirion stepped forward to offer his two cents. "Such measures would have been an equivalent to an authoritarian gesture, your Highness. Not even King Terenas went this far when Lordaeron was first besieged by the Horde years ago."

"It is still in consideration, my friends" Arthas assured them. "But survival of our people and the realm of Lordaeron is paramount, and all options are on the table if it meant getting closer to that goal."

The chamber went silent, considering their new orders. Jaina glanced at Arthas, who narrowed at the measures they would soon implement. Even though he had been practicing patience and restraint as to not make any rushed decisions, his heart has always been with the people of Lordaeron and would do anything for their protection. "As we have nothing else to discuss, I would adjourn this meeting and we will meet again tomorrow before the 1st Legion would begin its march to Dalaran. I need need new reports by tomorrow to be addressed before we leave. Dismissed."

In the present day, Violet Citadel...

With little time but with so much to do, Arthas, Jaina, Falric and Marwyn gathered with the Kirin Tor's Council of Six as they convene on their strategy to defend Dalaran against the incoming Scourge invasion. The 1st Legion's men were in the process of fortifying the city's defenses, and whatever artillery or mage they could spare are being placed strategically in every vantage point to wreak havoc against them. Quel'dorei Farstriders began to make rounds in surveying the area and to report back for any marching armies.

Arthas, cupped his chin thoughtfully. Tichondrius and the Scourge are not so easily repelled. With the losses inflicted onto the Quel'dorei, their numbers are surely swelled and with Kel'thuzad, now resurrected as an ArchLich, would be able to reanimate corpses in a faster rate that would put ten necromancers to shame. The Blackrock Orcs are still a threat at this point, and Arthas couldn't help but wonder why they haven't collapsed as most of their officers barring their Warchief were already dead.

Wouldn't help the fact that Kel'thuzad was a Kirin Tor Archmage himself, being a member of Dalaran's Council of Six before his expulsion. And his own inner knowledge of the workings within the city would be a challenge by itself. And it seemed that Antonidas, Rhonin and the rest of the Council are aware of this as well as they looked tense.

"The Scourge would take its time to recover its losses from Quel'thalas.", the Prince spoke up, looking over a the map where the city of Dalaran was marked by a purple chess piece. "If we can surmise, this would be their all or nothing gambit with their plan to take the Book of Medivh and to begin their summoning."

The Grand Magus narrowed his eyes in deep thought as she thought of ways on how to coordinate effectively with the forces they already have. "We have mages who are able to create a barrier that would protect the city.", Antonidas declared. "Should they wish to cross, they would only prove to be vulnerable of its capabilities."

His apprentice looked around the room, looking over at Modera, Ansirem, Arthas and Rhonin. "But we have to consider the fact that the Scourge will not be bringing only the undead to our gates," she said pointed out with concern. "They have Orc allies, and the potential to control or manipulate other non-Scourge forces."

"How so, Prince Arthas?", Modera asked in curiosity.

"Their leaders aren't anything like the typical Scourge warrior. And the Dreadlords, their leaders, have varying skillsets that is way more focused in manipulation, control and clandestine operations but they aren't pushovers when it came to combat either.", Arthas explained to them, which caused more than a few mages present to be grim at the information given to them. "Some are powerful practitioners of necromancy themselves, some are experts when it came to conjuring multiple portals at once. And possibly the worse, possession and mind control."

More than a few were quickly intrigued as the Prince explained their new enemy. "Possession and mind control, Prince Arthas?", Rhonin skeptically repeated, not finding it himself to believe that could be possible. "That seemed to be out of place, even from what we knew."

"You'll soon find that there would be matters that would further complicate our worldview in time.", he told them with a sigh. "Kel'Thuzad and those he served has proven resourceful in the past. They would not rely solely on the undead."

The Grand Magus narrowed his eyes in contemplation, remembering his attempt to probe into Kel'thuzad's mind that nearly sucked him into whatever void that his current master belonged. "A valid point, young Prince." He turned to the Council. "We need to be prepared for any eventuality, but any more knowledge of what we could face would be beneficial for the city's defense."

Arthas looked over the window as if it had the answers with him. "There is a possibility that we may be dealing with more than a few dragons under the service of the Blackrock Clan."

The thought of facing dragons again didn't surprise most one bit as they could recall the Alliance's own confrontations with them. "The Horde's Dragonmaw Clan did field many of them during the previous war.", Rhonin recounted. "Even so, it doesn't mean we are ill-equipped to deal something like this when we have more than a few Gryphon Riders that could prove a match to them if we manage to use them effectively."

"Then we have to reinforce the defense line from there.", Jaina spoke up. "But they would likely be fielding Abominations and other heavy units at their disposal. Meaning, we have to respond with our own heavy units as it would take more than a few mages and footmen to deal with them."

The red-haired Archmage stepped forward with a possible solution. "Then it seems this may be a good time to to put those specimens caged within the city to good use.", Rhonin suggested. "It would be a waste if we kept investing resources onto them but don't utilize them when we needed them the most."

Ansirem spoke up hesitantly after hearing those. "But the experiments... they are our most prized assets. Their loss would be a significant blow to our research and defense capabilities."

"We can't afford to hold them back," Arthas firmly pointed out. "We'll need every weapon at our disposal to protect Dalaran. If we can decimate the Scourge and its leadership here, we could end this war in a single stroke."

The Grand Magus' gaze hardened, remembering that Orcs who actively aided the Scourge. "And what of the Horde?" he asked. "Can we be certain that they have not allied with these undead... monstrosities against the Alliance?"

Arthas's grip tightened around the edge of the table. "The Blackrock Orcs that sided with the Scourge to do not represent them, Master Antonidas," he acknowledged. "But I can assure you, they have no part in Kel'Thuzad's schemes. As far as we know, the Horde is likely trying to get away from the Eastern Kingdoms but they aren't our concern."

The Council members murmured among themselves, weighing the risks and the potential gains of deploying their experimental defenses. "What of the other kingdoms?", Archmage Modera asked inquisitively. "Would we be able to afford any reinforcements from them?"

If only it were that simple to ask and then receive.

"We have sent for aid from the other kingdoms," Arthas began, his voice firm. "But their hands are full. Kul'tiras is overwhelmed with the evacuation of refugees from Lordaeron and Quel'thalas. Stormwind likely could not afford to send in additional troops, and Stromgarde is in disarray following King Thoras's murder. As for Gilneas, they are as always, closed to outside aid except for a couple brigades, but even they were sent behind King Greymane's back."

"That leaves us with what we have," Jaina added, her looking over the map. "The 1st Legion, the Kirin Tor, as well as detachments from Ironforge and Quel'dorei Farstriders. We must make do with our current resources and hope that we can hold out until the tides turn in our favor."

The chamber fell silent as the Archmages and the officers contemplated in what to do next, but that was interrupted when Antonidas spoke again. "As such, we will continue our efforts in bolstering our defenses thoroughly. Modera, Ansirem, see to it that whatever tomes and other artifacts that we have within the sanctum be transported temporarily until the storm passes."

The two members of the Council of Six complied as they and a few magi moved to the vaults before the Grand Magus turned to Rhonin. "Rhonin, make sure all civilians are evacuated to Stormwind and other neighboring kingdoms willing to take them in. Only then I will call upon you to assist us in the creation of our special auras for the city's defense."

The red-haired Archmage complied with his request. "At once, Antonidas.", he replied, giving Arthas and Jaina a nod before he exited the chamber. The Grand Magus then turned to Falric, Marwyn and the others. "I will be having a word with Prince Arthas and Jaina personally.""

Those present in the chamber were taken back momentarily but didn't see anything wrong to convene between themselves. The Kirin Tor and other officers left one by one as Jaina watched her master's somber mood as he straightened himself while Arthas looked equally tense. Once there were only three of them that remained, the Grand Magus cleared his throat as he began to speak with the two in private.

Meanwhile, at the ruins of Alterac City...

Kel'thuzad had to bide his time carefully if he wished to fulfill Ner'zhul's will, even if it meant continuing to adhere to the demands of the Dreadlords present as he raised the corpses of fallen Syndicate members with a simple wave of his hand. The Sunwell's energies were exponential in already empowering his unchained capabilities that were previously held back by his mortal coil.

Looking over at the city he once called home, the Archlich looked over at the city to find its residents being evacuated to who knows were. And he could find to see an entire army fielded by the Alliance fortifying the city in the best they could. However, Kel'thuzad looked up to the floating red dragons above him, recognizing their potential use later on for his personal design if the opportunity shows itself. "The Kirin Tor are resourceful...", Kel'thuzad mused of his former compatriots as he looked over to the city in a ghastly light. "But their knowledge could only get them so far."

Meanwhile, Mal'Ganis looked moody and disgruntled as usual as he stared at the Scourge forces marching below him and he scoffed in disgust after they had slaughtered much of the humans that remained in Alterac. And he turned to find newcomers coming droves, looking blind and dumbfounded as they obediently followed his compatriot's trail.

Mug'thol and Krol stood in front of their respective clans of the Stonemaul and the Boulderfist ogres as leaders. Detheroc looked pleased to himself to find these mindless brutes under his control without exerting much effort due to how 'pitiful' their minds were that were ripe for the taking. "Still wishing you could get your hands on that Prince, Mal'Ganis?", Detheroc mockingly quipped at his fellow Dreadlord.

His response was an intense glare that Detheroc found amusing. "I'll get my chance, Detheroc.", he promised with a scoff, flexing his massive arm as he imagined the Prince who defied him being torn to shreds with his bare hands. "That impudent human will know the price for his defiance."

Detheroc looked over to their bolstered forces before he looked to find Tichondrius teleporting to them, with his typical serious demeanor that defined his post as the leader of the Nathrezim. "Report.", he demanded.

Kel'thuzad was the first to speak before he was flanked by Rivendare and Barov. "Our forces are ready, Tichonrius.", he promised him. "The city's inner workings are still within my mind's eye to use to our advantage."

Wrathjaw, Throk'feroth and Mazrigos stepped forward with their troops. "They are yours to command, my lord.", he bellowed, gesturing to his warriors who are eager to have their fill in human blood. "Those pitiful mages will not last in the face of total annihilation of their pathetic city."

"And I...", Detheroc interrupted as he stepped forward, looking over at the ogres he controlled. "have made new friends that would prove useful to our efforts to break through their defenses."

Even with their new troops, the Darkener remained unconvinced. "In spite of the troops we have gathered, the humans, along with the Kirin Tor, are not to be underestimated by any means.", Tichondrius warned. "This attack is our first and last grasp in making sure Lord Archimonde and the Legion walked this world."

"Do not worry, Tichondrius.", Detheroc assured him with a wave of his hand. "I have the means to enter their abode. All I need is to make sure that they are pre-occupied enough, with enough time and effort."

"And how do you intend to do that?", Mal'Ganis spoke in both skepticism and incredulity.

The obese Dreadlord only gave him an ugly smile as he began to explain his own part of the plan. As Kel'thuzad looked over as to where Dalaran stood, he couldn't help but remained intrigued of the Prince's...uncanny foresight.

Which only increased the Archlich's curiosity. Who are you, Arthas?, he thought as he recounted the Prince's actions that only serve to heighten his suspicions. And why do you know so much for someone who should know only so little?

Chapter Text

Activity surged in Blackwood as Lor'themar surveyed the bustling activity. Beside him, Thassarian leaned against a newly erected timber frame, looking with approval and guarded curiosity. "Your people work swiftly, Ranger-Lord," Thassarian observed keenly, watching a group of Quel'dorei craftsmen seamlessly integrate graceful, sweeping arches into the sturdy human architecture of a half-built longhouse. "Never seen wood shaped like that."

The elf offered a small smile of the commendation. "Necessity breeds innovation, Lieutenant. We cannot live in tents forever, nor burden your town indefinitely." He gestured towards the expanding settlement where elven children chased human ones through rows of magically accelerated saplings, their laughter bringing solace to the people who had been at war. "With your permission, we would utilize the surrounding forests. Not for exploitation, but for sustainable homes. We have master carpenters, and our mages can ensure regrowth."

Thassarian scratched his chin, considering the request. Where once stood muddy ruts, now lay cobblestones cleaned by whispered arcane words; fields that had struggled now shimmered with unnaturally vibrant wheat, nourished by pulsing mana crystals shipped from Dalaran. "Prince Arthas left me in charge," he thoughtfully recalled. "His orders were clear: see your people sheltered. If trees must fall so children have roofs... then I don't see what's wrong with that." He looked back at Lor'themar. "But be careful. Some here still remember the previous war."

From behind a stack of timber, Koltira had moved towards them. "Thassarian, Ranger-Lord. The purification wards on the new well are holding. The children... they drank clean water today." His voice held quiet wonder.

The human Lieutenant clapped the elf on the shoulder. "Good work, brother. Seems your people's magic's doing more good here than half our granaries."

Koltira glanced towards the distant road leading further mainland Lordaeron. "Imagine Lord Garithos riding through here now," he chortled. "Seeing elves not just surviving, but building. Making Blackwood... well, better. He'd likely combust right in his saddle."

Thassarian snorted at the hypothetical scenario. "By the Light, brother, I'd pay a month's wages in gold coin just to watch that miserable bastard's face turn purple." He shook his head, still grinning. "Let him choke on his prejudice. This," he gestured broadly at the blending cultures, the shared labor, the clean streets humming with quiet magic, "this is what keeps the darkness at bay. Elf or human." Lor'themar watched them witj cautious hope warming his stern features as the sounds of hammers and children's laughter wove together into a mark of resilience.

Eastweld, Lordaeron...

Amidst the carnage that had occurred, Alliance forces that consisted of Humans, Dwarves and Gnomes braced for impact as the Scourge tide of ghouls crashed against the Footmen's shield wall. Meat Wagons kept hurling projectiles made of flesh and gore to their positions, Obsidian Statues provided vital support to the undead by healing, or at least providing necrotic energies to the besieging forces, and Abominations were rushing forward with impunity, cleaving and slamming whatever Alliance forces unfortunate enough to get in its way. In the forefront, the lich Ras Frostwhisperer commanded these forces, raising a skeletal hand to hurl a orb of frozen fire at the humans before him.

Muradin roared orders, leaping to cut off the legs of a Nerubian before crashing his axe onto the creature's head, while Baelgun"s hammer slammed into a skeletal abomination, sending it staggering backwards. "Hold the line, ye maggot-ridden corpses!" The dwarf commander bellowed. "Don't let 'em flank us!"

All of a sudden, sudden barrage of searing arrows rained down, pinning shambling ghouls to the mud. Dragonhawks screamed as they dove, their Quel'dorei riders descending down to provide supporting fire while Quel'dorei Rangers and priests came to reinforce their line. Halduron landed beside Muradin, giving him a slight bow as a salute. "Ranger-General Sylvanas sends her regards, Bronzebeard," he hastily informed. "Lord Fordring approved our deployment. Where do you need us?"

Muradin's eyes widened beneath his helm, seeing as reinforcements had came. "Elves? Now?" A nearby veteran, captain who fought at the defense of Quel'thalas and the Siege of Lordaeron from the previous war spat. "Trust pointy-ears after they left us hanging to the Orcs? Likely here to stab us in the back!"

Ignoring the grumbling, Muradin clasped the Ranger-Captain's forearm. "Aye, yer timing's sharper than yer blades! Reinforce the eastern flank—those necromancers are raising fresh meat!" He pointed toward a group of sickly mages reanimating skeletons. "Burn 'em out!"

Halduron nodded, whistling sharply. The Dragonhawks wheeled as Farstriders melted into the fray, arrows finding gaps in decaying armor and concentrating their fire against the Obsidian statues. "For Quel'thalas and the Alliance!" Halduron cried out while the dward grinned, raising his axe to rally his troops. "Right then, lads! Let's show these bony bastards what happens when dwarves and elves fight side by side!"

Meanwhile, Silvermoon...

Kael felt as if the universe was mocking him as he led his small band through the shattered elegance of the Bazaar. Above, the fractured spires of the ruined city clawed at a bruised sky, likely damage from Frost Wyrms, Gargoyles and other monstrosities when they descended down from there. They could hear the distant, guttural roars of troll warbands clashing with Scourge abominations near the Dead Scar – Dar'khan's bargain with the Legion pitting his puppet Scourge against Zul'jin's vengeful Amani, who sought to safeguard their newly reclaimed land. It was chaos Kael used, a smokescreen for their desperate infiltration.

"Keep low, and move swiftly," Kael ordered with suppressed fury as he gestured towards a collapsed archway leading towards the city. Arcane wards functioned weakly in his palm, masking their presence from the shambling undead patrols – his former subjects that became undead slaves. "The traitor's attention is divided, but his eyes are still everywhere." Rommath cautioned as he maintained the spell that concealed their presence, while Liadrin gripped her mace, a weapon of choice that she had acquired after Solanar had thought her how to use it, uttering a quiet prayer to a Light that felt increasingly distant.

They moved like ghosts through the ruins. Past the scorched remnants of shops where mannequins clad in tattered finery lay broken; over courtyards where fountains now bubbled with viscous, green sludge.

Every step was a knife in Kael's heart. My city. My failure. He saw the accusing stares of the refugees in his mind's eye, heard their whispers: Where was the Prince? The stark contrast burned – Arthas, the human prince, lauded as a savior for his timely intervention and aid, his actions saving countless Quel'dorei lives while Kael, their rightful heir, had been debating arcane theory in Dalaran.

He kept hearing how his people praised and admired Arthas even before he left Blackwood. Even though Kael did feel relieved that many of his people are safe and was thankful for Arthas and Lordaeron for their aid, the envy was a bitter poison, sharpening his resolve into a brittle edge. He would reclaim something here. He must.

Arthas saved them. He didn't.

Arthas gave them refuge, a place they could still call home. While he left it to ruin.

Arthas gave them hope. He gave them disappointment.

Teleporting to Quel'Danas, they saw once-sacred path was choked with the risen dead – not mindless Scourge drones, but Quel'dorei warriors, wandering aimlessly with weapons on their jands. They moved with chilling precision, remnants of their martial prowess twisted into unholy parody. "Captain... Thalorien," Aethas choked out, spotting the Royal Guard near the Sanctum entrance. The legendary swordsman stood tall amidst lesser wraiths, his magnificent blade Quel'delar looked damaged while his noble face locked in an eternal rictus of anguish. Recognition, horrifying and personal, flickered in his spectral eyes as they fell upon Kael.

"P-Prince... Kael'thas..." Thalorien's voice was layered with agony and a terrible, lingering duty. "F-flee... this... cursed... place..." He raised his blade where its light now a sickly violet. "The Sunwell... demands... silence..."

The Prince's gritted his teeth in both sorrow and suppressed anger. "I cannot, old friend," he whispered,. "Your watch is ended. Let me grant you peace." He didn't wait for the wraith to charge when a torrent of searing crimson flame erupted from his hands, engulfing the spectral captain. Thalorien didn't scream; he seemed to shudder, a flicker of relief passing through his tortured eyes before the flames consumed him utterly, leaving only drifting ash and the mournful sigh of released spirit. Kael retrieved the fallen Quel'delar, giving it to Solanar. "Forgive me," he uttered before he and the group continued their journey.

Then, he saw it.

The Sunwell Plateau. The heart of his people. Once a radiant font of pure, liquid arcane energy, singing with the song of creation itself. Now, it was a festering wound in reality. The pool churned with thick, viscous corruption – swirling blacks, putrid greens, and bruise-like purples. Tendrils of dark energy pulsed from its surface, lashing the air like malevolent whips, warping the very stone around it. It seethed with a discordant, maddening power that scraped against Kael's soul. From the side, he found Felo'melorne, his father's blade that he used to defend their very essence. He carefully picked it up, and placed his forehead onto the blade. Our people's sacrifice will not be in vain, he thought with his eyes squeezed shut. I swear it!

The Prince stared into the churning abyss that had been the Sunwell. The sight was a blow, worse than any wound he'd imagined. This wasn't just corruption; it was desecration, the heart of his people turned into a fount of purest nightmare. The envy he'd nursed towards Arthas curdled into something darker, sharper. While Arthas basked in the gratitude of the survivors, Kael stood amidst the ruins of his birthright, facing the monstrous consequence of his failure. Or rather his absence.

"It's... irredeemable," Liadrin breathed, with despair, the Light within her recoiling from the vile energies. "The corruption runs too deep, my Prince. It festers in the very ley lines."

Rommath, ever pragmatic gestured towards the shimmering crystals they'd retrieved from the second elf gate, the same moon crystals were used by Dar'khan and Kel'thuzad that let the Scourge in. "... destabilization is the only mercy. Contain the spread. Prevent it from poisoning every elf who draws near."

Kael closed his eyes, the image of his father lying in his bed broken, the phantom screams of his people echoing in the corrupted air. He should have been their shield. He should have stopped this. This abomination before him was the monument to his negligence. "Do it," he commanded, although a part of him tried screaming that there could have been another way. "Rip the heart out. Before it claims what's left."

The elves moved in unison. Liadrin raised her hands, channeling the Light into the shimmering moon crystals, Rommath weaving intricate arcane sigils beside her. Alastor Bloodsworn added his own potent magic to the unstable matrix. The corrupted Sunwell pulsed like a diseased heart, its energies recoiling against the intrusion.

Suddenly, their process was interrupted by an unwelcome audience. The traitor himself, Dar'khan Drathir, emerged from a portal, flanked by a cadre of San'layn and Darkfallen elves that he personally revived himself. The traitorous Magister looked like a dry husk, but the power he wielded was unimaginable as he gave them a cruel smirk. "Such haste, Prince Kael'thas?" he mockingly drawled at them. "Leaving so soon? And without even thanking me for the... improvements?"

Kael whirled to face the renegade Magister fully, raising Felo'melorne at him. "You traitor!" he hatefully snarled. "You sold Quel'Thalas! You sold our kin to demons and walking corpses!"

Dar'khan chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that only fueled their rage. "Sold? No, Prince. I invested. While you dallied in Dalaran, debating with those sanctimonious Council members, Lord Tichondrius showed me true power!" He clenched a fist, and viridian fel fire erupted around it. "Power that the Sunwell could never offer! My place within the Legion is assured, while yours..." He gestured dismissively at the ruins. "...lies buried in ashes your neglect and failure of your absence."

The barb struck deep. Kael flinched, the image of Arthas receiving accolades in Lordaeron flashing before his eyes. Dar'khan pressed the wound. "Always conveniently absent, weren't you? When the Ban'dinoriel fell? When your father bled? When Silvermoon fell? More than a coincidence, don't you think?"

He gestured, and a figure shambled forward behind him – High Priest Vandellor, his robes stained dark, a gaping, necrotic hole piercing his chest where Detheroc had struck. Liadrin gasped, her concentration faltering for a terrifying instant.

"Father?" she whispered, horror choking her voice.

The reanimated Priest's lifeless eyes fixed on her devoid of the warmth she remembered. "The Light... is... a lie, child. Only... oblivion... is awaits." The words were a dagger in Liadrin's soul. She gasped, her face contorted in pure, righteous rage towards the traitor. "YOU MONSTER!" she screamed, lunging forward. Kael barely caught her arm, holding her back as Dar'khan's Darkfallen guards stepped forward in his defense.

Dar'khan rolled his eyes at her. "Spare me your impotent Light, Liadrin.", he sneered before he raised his hand to gesture to the living elves. "Look at you all! Reduced to scavengers, clinging to life on the charity of humans! Begging scraps from the human prince who actually fought while yours had his own priorities. Pathetic. He did more for Quel'Thalas in a week than your precious Sunstriders managed in centuries of decadence. Oh, did I forget to mention Salonar?" he purred, relishing every syllable. "He was a nuisance—until Detheroc tore off his arm. He screamed so sweetly as the dreadlord feasted on his essence." He paused, tapping a bony finger against his chin. "And your father... Mal'Ganis nearly spilled his entrails across the throne room floor. A pity he survived—imagine the poetry of Anasterian's guts decorating Quel'Thalas!"

Kael's fists trembled, arcane energy crackling like live wires around him. Rommath hissed, "Focus, Prince! The ritual—"

But Dar'khan wasn't finished. He looked over to Liadrin's ashen face, then back to Kael. "As for this?" He gestured contemptuously at the seething Sunwell. "Go ahead and ask your Ranger-General about that." He laughed, a sound like grinding bones. "She shares your failures, my Prince. Arthas rides the tide of gratitude while you drown in your own incompetence."

"Enough!" Kael roared, the comparison to Arthas igniting a fury hotter than fel fire. "Liadrin, Rommath, Falon , Astalor—now! Overcharge it!" He flung a torrent of crimson flames toward Dar'khan, even as the traitor barked, "Crush these insects!"

Vampiric elves lunged, fangs bared, while Darkfallen archers loosed shadowy arrows. Aethas deflected a volley with a powerful barrier, gritting his teeth. "Hold them back!" Solanar's blade came to parry against a Darkfallen's dagger before carving through a San'layn's chest in a spray of black ichor. "Easier said than done!"

Liadrin knelt, tears streaking her cheeks as she channeled the Light into the moon crystals. Rommath's hands wove frantic sigils, sweat beading on his brow. The corrupted Sunwell pulsed violently, its dark energies recoiling as the crystals flared with blinding intensity.

The traitorous Magister snarled, fel fire coalescing in his palm. "Let us see whose fire burns hotter, Your Highness!" The blast erupted—a vortex of emerald annihilation—colliding with Kael's arcane inferno in a cataclysmic explosion of light and shadow. Stone shattered. The plateau trembled. And for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the duel of princes—one bathed in stolen power, the other burning with desperate, wounded pride.

Violet Citadel, Dalaran....

Within Rhonin's own quarters at the Citadel, Vereesa sat opposite Sylvanas, her hands folded over her rounded belly as she observed her with both concern and care. Between them, a low fire crackled in the hearth where the younger Windrunner could see her sister's haunted features. "Sylvanas...what happened back at Silvermoon?", she carefully inquired. "What happened to you?

The Ranger-General didn't speak for a moment, until she had found her strength to do so. "I...I failed them, Vereesa," Sylvanas lowly began as she stared into the flames, as if they were playing the very memories that scarred her before her own eyes. "Dar'khan... and Kel'thuzad...they opened the gates. Welcomed the Scourge like an old friend." Her held her chest, trying her best to explain it to her. "We were captured when the second gate had fallen. Anya and Velonara were murdered before my. Nathanos..." She swallowed hard, remembering the pained, final smile he had given her as he tried to assure her that everything would have been okay "Kel'Thuzad snapped his neck before my eyes. Just to break me. To make me talk as to where were the crystals needed to open the Ban'dinoriel."

Vereesa reached across the small table, her own fingers brushing Sylvanas's ashen hand. It looked strange, but chose to ignore it. "But I wrote to you," she whispered. "After Arthas warned me Dar'khan had turned. I sent three letters to Quel'thalas. Did you... not receive them?"

It felt like a knife being twisted onto the wound as Sylvanas squeezed her eyes shut in regret. "I did," she admitted. "After Lirath... I left them unopened. Deliberately" She turned to Vereesa with anguish. "I was...I was a fool to maintain my own hatred. I was... blind. Because of that, I wasn't able to know the risk that was already being waved, because I refused to look."

A sharp inhale escaped Vereesa, her mouth agape in shock and in disbelief to learn it from her. But then she rose, rounded the table, and knelt before her sister, cupping her anguished face. "Oh, Sylvanas," she murmured, tears glistening. "We were both grieving...you couldn't have known-"

"But I should have!", she snapped, feeling all the pent-up sorrow and regret coming out of her. "People knew, but I was stubborn to see it through because of my pride. Because of that, I have to live to see Silvermoon being infested by undead and orc monstrosities! I should have been vigilant, Vereesa! I should have seen it!"

The younger Windrunner was taken back by her sudden outburst, feeling both the anger and disbelief that came. However, her concern, compassion and her love for her sister, who bore the burden of her failure, of her regret, won over. "Sylvanas...we were both stubborn. You kept on fighting nonetheless, to make sure what remained of our people live to fight another day." She pressed her forehead to her sister's. "You're here. That is atonement."

The Ranger-General shuddered, leaning into the touch. "Arthas..." she breathed, with unexpected reverence. "I...we couldn't have made it out without him. He saved what remained of our people—your people—from slaughter. Gave them sanctuary in his own homeland." Her hand found itself on his chest, still feeling the phantom touch during the night at the manor's rooftop. "He pulled me back when I fell...I am not going to betray that trust by staying behind."

Vereesa felt her own heart be warmed. She had heard from the Quel'dorei who had taken refuge in Dalaran. They spoke of his resilience, his ability to lead and inspire in spite of the odds. His own compassion and heavy regard for their safety, knowing that he would have risked his kingdom should he ever fall in their defense, had already solidified her trust, and of her own admiration of the Prince alongside Rhonin.

Her older sister continued. "I stay with the Alliance not out of obligation, little moon. But because he showed me that, I can be more than my mistakes. And should he ever fall, I'll be the one to pull him back." She drew back, now looking determined at her. "I will see Quel'thalas restored. Not for pride, but because he reminded me what it means to be Ranger-General. What Alleria and our parents have fought for. And I will stand with him, as long as it takes."

The younger Windrunner's response was a smile through her tears. "Then we fight together. For Alleria For Arator. For these little ones." She placed Sylvanas's palm on her belly. "For all we thought we'd lost."

Their moment was interrupted, however when Jennalla and Cyndia burst through the courtyard gates, and into their quarters as they skidded to a halt before Sylvanas, giving her a respectful, if not exhausted bow. "Lady Sylvanas!" Jennalla gasped, her hand pressed to her heaving chest. "Scourge legions—thousands strong—approach from the west. They march with orcish berserkers, ogres and among other troops. Dalaran's outskirts are already aflame."

The Ranger-General's eyes darkened as she turned to Vereesa and Arator. "Go," she urged them. "Go with the rest of the refugees en route to Lordaeron via portal networks. I'll be heading out soon."

Vereesa clutched Arator's shoulder. "Sylvanas, please—"

"I will live for you," Sylvanas cut in, pulling her sister into a fierce, one-armed embrace. "For all of you." She pressed a kiss to Arator's brow before shoving them gently toward the Citadel's rear archway. "Now run."

Once the two have safely departed, Sylvanas took a deep breath and turned to her rangers. "To the war room. Now." They sprinted through the halls, where the Kirin Tor and Lordaeron's forces have moved quickly. Mages scrambled to reinforce wards, while warriors and ranged-personnel manned their stations. Bursting into the chamber, she found Arthas studying a glowing map of Dalaran, Antonidas at his shoulder, Jaina tracing defensive sigils in the air alongside Rhonin.

"The Scourge is here," she announced, piercing through the calm that befell the,. "Orcs and ogres bolster their ranks. They'll be at the walls within the hour."

The Grand Magus' staff struck the floor with a thunderous crack. "All magi—to the ramparts! Erect the auras now!", he looked to find Archmages Fordred Aran, Conjurus Rex all Landazar teleporting to their designated stations to erect the aura.

Arthas never looked up from the map. "Falric! Have the 1st Legion along the gates. Hold that chokepoint until the Kirin Tor's shields are raised." As the captain saluted and fled, he looked to find Sylvanas standing ready. "Your rangers?"

"On the eastern rooftops," she replied. "They'll pick off anything that breaches the lower wards."

"Good.", the Prince turned to face them. "If we can somehow eliminate the leadership in one swift stroke, then we can put this war to an end.", he grabbed Light's Vengeace. Jaina watched him go with a heavy heart, then onto the Farstrider leader. "Sylvanas... you could still evacuate with Vereesa and the rest."

The elf's lips curled into a thin, defiant smile. "You and the Prince gave me purpose when I had none. You trusted me when I don't deserve it." She drew her bow, testing its tension. "I will not turn from that trust today—or ever." Outside, the first thunder of siege engines shook the stones.

The storm had come.

For Ke'thuzad, it felt like coming back home. Even despite the falling out that he and Antonidas had regarding his little experiments. And now, as the Lich King has commanded him, he needed to bide time first in making sure the Legion get its foothold, especially as Tichondrius and his cohorts are right behind him. The Scourge host ground to a halt before Dalaran's shining gates, the Blackrock Orcs under Wrathjaw and the Boulderfist Ogres at the front while the bulk of the Scourge followed close behind. At its forefront, Kel'thuzad drifted forward, just as Grand Magus Antonidas emerged alone from the protective wards, holding his staff lightly as he detected the faint signature of one of his former Archmages. And it disgusted him to know end as he came to look at the Lich before him.

"Kel'thuzad," Antonidas called out in both revulsion and anger in front of the army behind him. "What... abomination have you become?"

The Archlich's jawbone crept up as to what appeared to be a smile, if that was ever possible. "Liberation, old friend! Freedom from the frailties of the flesh, the limitations of mortality. You could know such power... if you were dead, of course."

"You disgust me.", the Grand Magus spat. "You and your necromantic puppeteers are not welcome here. Turn your filth away from this city or face the wrath of the Kirin Tor!"

Kel'thuzad merely tilted his skull, glowing pinpoints of light flaring where eyes should be. "We need not stay long, old friend. Merely hand over the a certain book. A trifle, really, for the Kirin Tor. Surely gathering dust in your vaults?" He extended a bony hand, palm upturned.

On the battlements above, Arthas, Jaina, and Sylvanas watched. The Prince's cursed hand clenched the stone parapet, frost spreading faintly beneath his gauntlet, eager to end it all at once but forced himself to calm down. The elf felt her anger rising up upon seeing this monster again, almost instinctively drawing an arrow but both Arthas and Jaina held her forearms to keep her in check.

The Grand Magus drew himself up, thumping his staff. "Never! Your master's madness ends here.", he declared. "You will not unleash Archimonde and his horde upon this world!"

The Archlich's response was throwing back his skull and emitting a chilling, rattling laugh. "Such spirit! How thrilling... to think of all the new friends I shall make once Dalaran's citizens join our ranks. Their screams will be a praises for the Lich King!" He looked up to the defenders on the walls. "Especially yours, Prince Arthas. Your defiance has been... noted."

Before Kel'thuzad could utter another word, Antonidas slammed his staff down. A blinding flash erupted, and the Archmage vanished, reappearing instantly atop the battlements beside his allies. Below, Kel'thuzad's skeletal hand snapped shut on empty air. Instantly, the air above Dalaran crackled. Kirin Tor Archmages, positioned along the ramparts, raised their staves in unison. With a glance at the Blackrock Clan Warchief, Wrathjaw rallied his troops with a chant of 'Lok'tar Ogar!', as they began their charge. The first assault had begun.

The violet shimmer of Dalaran's Grand Aegis pulsed violently as the Blackrock orcs charged through its permeable boundary, roaring beneath Wrathjaw's jagged banner. Catapults hurled flaming debris overhead, smashing against the lower wards while raiders on snarling wolves surged ahead. Kel'thuzad's hollow laughter echoed above the din: "Pawns first, Prince! Let us see your vaunted Light withstand true savagery!"

Arthas met the tide head-on, Light's Vengeance a blur of holy fire. Beside him, Falric bellowed orders, the disciplined ranks of the 1st Legion locking shields against the berserk onslaught. Steel clashed on steel; the stench of ozone and blood filled the air. An orc chieftain lunged, axe aimed for Arthas's neck—only to be hurled back by a concussive hammer blow that shattered his breastplate and ribcage alike.

High on the battlements, Sylvanas nocked an arrow, pinpointing Kel'thuzad's floating form amidst the chaos. "I can end this," she hissed, drawing the fletching to her cheek. "One shot—"

Jaina seized her wrist. "Remember Quel'thalas! Remember the traps laid in our grief! Kel'thuzad wants you isolated!" Sylvanas flinched as memories flooded back—ambushes sprung in ruined spires, the atrocities that had been conjured by the Archlich's cruel mind. Jaina pressed harder. "Trust Arthas's plan. Your Farstriders are needed here—stop those saboteurs scaling the western tower!"

For a moment, it would seem that her temperament would win over. With a snarl of frustration, she pivoted, loosing three arrows in rapid succession. Each found its mark: a mind controlled Syndicate assassin tumbling silently from the citadel wall, a goblin infused sapper collapsing mid-charge, and a wolf-rider crashing into his packmates. "Jennalla! Cyndia! Suppressing fire on the eastern approach!" she barked. "Nothing reaches the inner sanctum!"

Below, near the gate, Rhonin's arcane missiles tore through advancing Orc grunts before the ground erupted into pillars of fire at his beset. Beside him, Jaina quickly casted powerful barriers that held out against Orc Catapults. However, two powerful lightning blasts befell them as the two Orc Warlocks emerged from the smoke, readying themselves for the kill.

"Paltry parlor tricks, human!" Throk'feroth spat, hurling a coil of shadowflame that shattered Jaina's ice wall with his staff. "Your souls will fuel the Legion's gateway!"

Mazrigos raised clawed hands, summoning jagged pillars of felstone from the earth and a pack of Spirit Wolves. "Our masters hunger for your power! Die screaming!"

Rhonin turned to look at Jaina, who only nodded with hi,. They raised their staves in unison. Twin beams of pure arcane energy lanced forward, clashing against the warlocks' fel onslaught in an explosion

The tide of Blackrock orcs broke against the veteran shield wall of the 1st Legion. Falric's command rang sharp above the clash: "Push them back! For Lordaeron!" Arthas stood in front of the vanguard where he caved in the skull of a charging raider, but roar pierced the temporary respite as Boulderfist Ogres lumbered forward with their massive clubs swinging mindlessly, pulverizing stone and bone alike.

Antonidas' voice thundered from the heights: "Release the Constructs! Now!" With a grinding of chains, Dalaran's massive gates groaned open. Hulking Flesh Golems, stitched from the corpses of fallen warriors and imbued with volatile arcane energy, shambled forth to meet the ogres. The resulting collision was apocalyptic—fists met clubs in explosions of gore and fel-tainted ichor. Joining them were numerous creatures, experiments that were coveted and were later sickened against the enemy.

Within the carnage near the gates, Arthas moved through the carnage as quickly as humanly possible. His war hammer had been searing the flesh of Blackrock warriors as he shattered skulls and cleaved through spiked pauldrons. But it was the chilling counterpoint to his Paladin's fervor that truly broke the orcish advance. When a berserker charged, Arthas stomped the ground—not with Light, but with death.

Jagged ice erupted beneath the orc's feet, spearing upward to impale legs and torso in a grisly fountain. As another warrior swung a massive broadblade, Arthas turned to look at the warrior straight to the eyes where his adversary turned to look at the human's glowing blue eyes. The orc's eyes glazed over mid-swing; muscles locked in rigid paralysis just long enough for Falric's blade to find his throat. He concentrated for a moment, before his eyes flashed in determination. He parried an incoming axe from a grunt, pushing him back to impale him with large spikes of ice that he had summoned. He then concentrated his grip, pulling another warrior where the Prince threw him into another an ogre to a barrel of explosives, destroying them in a heap of flesh and gore. His right arm formed an coalescing orb of ice, slamming it down on the concrete below him to unleash an orbit of freezing blizzard on his adversaries, slowing them and draining their own life force. He looked behind his unsettled men. "Now!", he commanded, and the archers and riflemen took aim and ended their misery. The 1st Legion pressed the advantage, their prince a whirlwind of consecrated steel and glacial death, carving a crimson path through Wrathjaw's vanguard.

Arthas flowed between stances—one moment a bastion of Light, hammer radiating holy fire that incinerated Orc armor with searing detonations, the next a specter of ice and shadow, his cursed arm tracing arcs that summoned jagged frostspikes from the earth to impale charging orcs mid-stride before he used them to reanimate these corpses to fight for him. Boulderfist Ogres came charging where the Prince slammed his war hammer downward, channeling pure consecration through its head—a blinding golden wave that liquefied the ground beneath their feet into molten slag.

As they stumbled, screaming, into the mire, he raised his left hand. Translucent blue tendrils snaked out, not to kill, but to leech vitality. Their roars choked into gasps as their muscles seized, frost blooming across their skin, locking them in place like grotesque statues just as Falric's legionnaires descended with spears and axes. Another orc blademaster slipped past the fray, his blade aimed for Arthas' flank. The Prince pivoted, not with hammer, but with a gesture—a flick of his wrist that summoned a spectral, translucent runeblade mirroring Frostmourne's dread silhouette. It sliced through the air silently, parrying the axes in a shower of ethereal sparks before dissipating like mist, leaving the blademaster off-balance. Arthas closed the gap, Light's Vengeance descending not with brute force, but with surgical precision—its glowing head caving in the orc's chestplate with a thunderclap of shattered bone and sanctified light.

High above, Sylvanas loosed arrow after arrow into the chaos, her targets coming true. Then she saw him—Barov, the Death Knight, driving a brutal knee into Cyndia's stomach. The Farstrider gasped, crumpling against the parapet. Barov raised his runeblade, aiming for the kill. "Sunfall was merely a prelude, elf," he sneered. "Your little friend died crying. You'll join her—"

The Ranger-General didn't think. Her bow sang once—a single arrow punched through Barov's pauldron, staggering him. Before he could recover, she dropped from her perch ,drawing her two twin blades like silver lightning as she landed between him and Cyndia. Her ashen-gray hand trembled, not with fear, but with a cold, dark energy that mirrored her rage, causing her to look at it momentarily in both fear and intrigue. "You will not say her name that way, butcher." she hissed, the air around her crackling with unnatural cold.

Barov grinned, wrenching the arrow free. "I'll carve out your heart slow, Ranger-General. Just like I did hers." He lunged. Sylvanas met him blade for blade, their clash ringing across the battlements.

The air crackled with opposing energies—Jaina's frost and Rhonin's raw arcane clashing against Throk'feroth's shadowflame and Mazrigos's fel-infused earth magic. Jagged spikes of obsidian erupted from the cobblestones where Mazrigos gestured, forcing Jaina to pivot sharply, ice shards forming beneath her boots to skate clear. "Dance for me little human!" Mazrigos taunted, hurling a glob of molten rock that splattered against Rhonin's hastily conjured shield. The shield flared violet before shattering, spraying Rhonin with emerald sparks.

"Less speaking, more dying!" Throk'feroth roared, weaving tendrils of shadow that snaked toward Jaina's throat. She countered with a whip of pure frost, freezing the darkness mid-air. "Rhonin—now!" she cried. The red-haired archmage nodded, slamming his staff down. Arcane sigils blazed beneath the warlocks' feet as Jaina unleashed a torrent of glacial wind. Mazrigos stumbled, hisarmor frosting over, while Throk'feroth shrieked as Rhonin's binding glyphs seared his flesh. In perfect unison, Jaina's ice lance pierced Mazrigos's heart just as Rhonin's arcane blast reduced his companion to smoldering ash.

High above, Tichondrius observed impassively from a crumbling spire. Kel'thuzad drifted beside him, his skeletal fingers twitching with impatience. "Detheroc delays," the Archlich rasped, watching a Boulderfist Ogre kill Conjurus Rex, who faltered at the barrier's edge. The aura partially flickered, allowing Scourge ghouls to surge through the breach at that spot. Tichondrius only crossed his arms in quiet patience and observance. "Patience, lich. The spider weaves his web. Dalaran's heart will be ours—when the moment is ripe." Below, the Alliance line buckled as the dead advanced.

The Prince found himself confronting the red-skinned Orc warchief once more. The fel orc's massive broadblade carved through the air like a scythe, each swing carrying the weight of a falling boulder that was infused with fel magic. Arthas met them with Light's Vengeance where it hissed against the fel energy radiating from the flesh. Fourth time, Arthas thought grimly, parrying a downward chop that sent sparks showering across his pauldron. He remembered obliterating the Blackrock Clan at Alterac—scourge magic freezing their blood mid-charge for the Demon Gte. Then twice more in Quel'thalas: once in the second elf gate woods where he and his allies quickly assisted with the evacuation efforts, and again at the Fall of Silvermoon. I really need to make sure he stays dead this time.

Each memory fueled his defense as Wrathjaw roared, spittle flying from his tusked maw. "You bleed like all the others, human! The Legion drinks your fear!" Arthas pivoted, hammer slamming into the orc's ribs with a crackle of sanctified light.

"I've seen worse faces than you," he growled, frost creeping from his cursed gauntlet up the hammer's haft. "And you are certainly not one of them."

Nearby, Sylvanas fought Barov along a narrow parapet slick with blood. The death knight fought with cruel precision which required Sylvanas to to keep her distance away from him and to counter-attack once she had found an oopening.

"Remember what happened, elf?" Barov taunted, forcing her back with a flurry of strikes that nicked her forearm as shet quickly parried herself in a series of acrobatic and quick defenses with her two blades. . "She wept as I found my mark on her heart."

Sylvanas's breath hitched—not in fear, but in a cold, dark fury that surged through her ashen-gray hand. The blade in that grip suddenly thrummed with shadow, trailing wisps of void-stuff like ink in water. "You have no right to speak her name further" she hissed.

The Death Knight lunged; Sylvanas flowed beneath his swing, her augmented blade scraping across his breastplate. Frost erupted where steel met cursed metal, searing his undead flesh. "What trickery is this?" he snarled, staggering, watching as he blades were augmented with strange, dark energy that couldn't have been his own. But it did reek from death itself.

She didn't answer. Instead, she pressed, her movements a blur—each parry infused with chilling darkness, each thrust faster than thought. Barov's blade faltered, his arrogance crumbling into desperation. With a cry, Sylvanas drove both daggers forward—not at his heart, but his eyes. The blades punched through helm and bone with supernatural ease, darkness flaring as they pierced the sockets. Barov screamed, a sound cut short as Sylvanas wrenched the blades apart in a vicious cross-cut, shearing through skull and spine. His head fell in two ragged halves.

The Ranger-General stood over the twitching corpse, her shadow-wreathed blades dripping of his blood. "Rest now, Anya," she whispered, sheathing them with finality. "He will haunt you no more."

She looked as the Auras began to die flickered like a dying candle, its violet light dimming as she watched Landazar being killed by Mal'Ganis. Below, the relentless tide of undead surged through widening breaches, their moans mingling with the desperate cries of defiance from the defenders Above, the sky darkened further as three massive red dragons, banked low over the city. One unleashed a torrent of flame that engulfed an entire street market, turning stalls and defenders into pillars of greasy smoke. Screams pierced the din—a sound Sylvanas knew too well from Quel'thalas's pyres.

"You there!" Sylvanas barked, spotting a Kirin Tor Hippogryph struggling to evade draconic pursuit. Its dwarf rider, face pale beneath his helm, veered sharply toward her perch. "Get me airborne! Now!" She didn't wait for assent, leaping from the rampart to land deftly behind the saddle. The Hippogryph screeched in protest but obeyed its master's urging, climbing steeply toward the nearest dragon. Wind whipped Sylvanas's braid as she nocked an arrow, her ashen-gray hand tightening on the bowstring. Dark energy, cold and hungry, seeped from her fingertips, swirling around the arrowhead like liquid shadow. She knew not what its power had bring, all she knew that she has to use everything she had in her disposal.

"Closer!" she commanded. "Bring me under its belly!"

As they skimmed beneath the dragon's scaled underside, Sylvanas loosed. The arrow struck like a bolt of condensed night, punching through thick hide and exploding in a burst of shadow energy that shredded the beast's heart. The dragon bellowed, spiraling downward. Before the rider could react, Sylvanas vaulted from the Hippogryph's back, landing boots-first on the falling dragon's flank. She kicked off hard, using the momentum to flip backward through the air while drawing another arrow. Mid-somersault, she fired. The second arrow, trailing wisps of darkness, pierced the eye of another dragon swooping to intercept her.

It shrieked, veering wildly into a tower in a shower of stone. Sylvanas landed lightly back on the Hippogryph's saddle as it swooped beneath her. "Steady!" she snapped, already nocking three arrows simultaneously. The third dragon, enraged, dove at them, maw gaping. "Climb! Now!" The rider hauled the reins upward. As they soared above the dragon's snapping jaws, Sylvanas unleashed her volley. "For Quel'thalas!" The arrows, each singing with dark power, struck the base of the dragon's skull, throat, and wing joint. The beast crumpled mid-air, crashing onto a ogre group below. Sylvanas touched down on the ramparts, breathing hard but triumphant, her quiver empty where Jenalla quickly supplied her with a new batch. "The sky is clear," she called to the nearest defenders, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Hold the walls!"

Light's Vengeance flew from Arthas' grasp, skittering across blood-slicked cobblestones as Wrathjaw's broadblade hammered down where he'd stood. Arthas rolled backward, the tainted steel shattering stone where his head had been. "No holy trinket saves you now, princeling!" Wrathjaw bellowed, tusks flecked with spittle. "Your bones will adorn our master's throne!"

Arthas rose slowly, his cursed arm outstretched. Frost coalesced, swirling into jagged shards that fused with a sickening *crack*—a blade of pure, glacial darkness forming in his grip. The air around it hissed, moisture freezing mid-air.

He lunged, not with the righteous fury of a paladin, but the predatory grace of a Death Knight. The unnamed runeblade became a whirlwind of frozen shadow—parrying Wrathjaw's overhead chop with a shower of icy sparks, then whipping upward to carve a deep furrow across the orc's fel-infused bicep. Black blood steamed where frost met corruption. Wrathjaw roared, swinging wildly, but Arthas flowed like water around the strikes, his blade tracing chilling arcs: a slash across the thigh, a stab into the side that left rime spreading beneath armor plates.

The Prince ducked a decapitating strike before he spun, driving the blade point-first into the cobbles. Chains of spectral ice erupted from the ground, coiling around the fel orc's legs. The Warchief staggered, bellowing as frost crawled up his limbs. Arthas ripped the blade free, its edge singing with deathly cold. "Let us end this pointless feud" He raised the runeblade high, its dark length pulsing with stolen life—a killing blow poised to fall.

High atop the Violet Citadel's tallest spire, the Grand Magus and Archlich fought with outmost ferocity. Jagged glaciers erupted where Antonidas gestured, only to be shattered by Kel'thuzad's counter-spell of entropic decay. Water elementals summoned by the Grand Magus surged forward, their liquid forms freezing mid-lunge as the lich quickly froze them in place, shattering them almost effortlessly with a clench of his bony hand. "You cling to outdated paradigms, Antonidas!" Kel'thuzad's skeletal jaw clacked, frostfire gathering in his bony palms. "The Lich King has shown me truths beyond your feeble mortal comprehension!"

Antonidas raised his staff, its crystal focus blazing blue. "Truths that murdered our colleagues? Betrayed Dalaran itself?" He channeled pure arcane cold, the air crystallizing into a thousand diamond-hard needles that streaked toward his former friend. Kel'thuzad met the barrage with a vortex of howling frost, the conflicting magics colliding in a deafening crack that sheared stone from the spire. Ice met ice in a blinding detonation—but Kel'thuzad's new form as an Archlich surged darker, colder. Antonidas grunted, skidding backward as his boots carved grooves in the frozen stone, his defensive wards flickering.

"A distraction?" Kel'thuzad hissed, tendrils of necrotic energy coiling around Antonidas' ankles. "Merely the overture!"

Below, unnoticed in the chaos, the Violet Citadel's inner sanctum ran red. Councilor Dalar Dawnweaver moved with impossible speed, his hands infused with strange energy that left slaughter behind them—decapitating elite guards, disemboweling arcane constructs. As the last defender fell, Dalar's form shimmered and melted away, revealing the towering, winged horror of Detheroc. The Dreadlord's clawed hand closed around the pulsating Book of Medivh. "The spider weaves," he sneered , vanishing in a swirl of smoke.

He reappeared beside Kel'thuzad mid-duel. The Grand Magus' eyes widened in horrified realization. "Dalar was—?!"

The Dreadlord sneered at him, tossing the book to Kel'thuzad. "A useful mask."

The Archlich caught the tome, looking at the tome with such reverence and perverse fascination. "Then it is settled. I'll return when more important work is finished, old friend," he intoned as fel and necromantic energies converged. Before Antonidas could react, the traitors vanished—reappearing in Dalaran's central plaza. Kel'thuzad began the summoning as undead forces and their allies converged into his position against the Alliance: "Let the cosmos bear witness! ARCHIMONDE, ANSWER YOUR SUMMONS!"

The Grand Magus's cry was heard all throughout the battlefirld: *"PLAZA! STOP THE RITUAL!" Jaina's head snapped toward the city center, paling as she realized that Kel'thuzad had gotten his hands on the book.

Beside her, Rhonin roared orders as his arcane shields flared against a fresh wave of Scourge infantry. "Push forward! Break their lines!" But the dead surged with renewed frenzy, skeletal warriors climbing over their own fallen, Frost Wyrm frost-breath turning entire squads into frozen statues.

Sylvanas, perched on a crumbling archway, loosed arrow after arrow into the wyrms' icy hides, already exhausted. "Damn it! They're cutting us off!" she shouted, her voice raw. The Grand Magus, finding himself fighting against Mal'Ganis, couldn't disengage. "Prince Arthas! Go!" he bellowed, frost erupting from his staff to clear a momentary path. "You're the only one close enough!"

He didn't hesitate as he disengage from the fel orc. No...no...no! Not this time!, dazhed as he cut through ghouls and abominations like wheat. Bone shattered, rotting flesh parted, and icy chains erupted from the cobbles to drag shrieking banshees into oblivion. He vaulted over a collapsing barricade, sprinted across a plaza slick with blood and entrails, looking straight to Kel'thuzad performing the summoning as he cut through Nerubian Crypt finds

The Archlich's incantation rose. Almost there! Arthas poured every ounce of cursed strength into a final, leaping strike – a downward slash aimed to cleave Kel'thuzad from crown to pelvis, a giving it his all to prevent the very being capable of obliterating their world.

CLANG!

The impact wasn't the shattering of bone he expected. Instead, his frozen blade met solid, unholy metal. Ice shards exploded outward in a blinding spray. Arthas hung suspended mid-air, shock freezing him as surely as his own magic. His blade was locked against a massive, spiked warhammer – its haft blackened iron, its head radiating waves of palpable death.

Slowly, disbelievingly, Arthas shifted his gaze from the hammer blocking his killing blow. His eyes traveled up the armored arm gripping it, past pauldrons etched with skulls, to settle on the face in front of him.

The world seemed to stop the moment the Prince felt his own heart freeze upon seeing the face that was framed by streaks of white hair where it once carried wisdom, now twisted into a cruel parody.

If felt like a nightmare made manifest from the Prince's darkest thoughts and regrets.

A familiar voice, altered with the scent of death, slithered into his ears. "It's good to see you again..." Uther's mouth curled into a ghastly smile. "...my Prince."