Arthas.
A name that would one day become synonymous with betrayal. The fallen prince, the kingslayer. The destroyer of Quel'Thalas and the defiler of the Sunwell. The monster who turned the flourishing Lordaeron into a kingdom of the dead. And finally, the culmination of this path—a title that made the blood of all living things run cold.
The Lich King.
Yes, that was precisely his foreordained destiny. The final scene—a battle at the top of the world, in the icy halls of Icecrown Citadel, and defeat at the hands of Tirion Fordring with the radiant Ashbringer.
The end of a traitor's path, whose crimes would remain forever inscribed in the history of Azeroth.
The mere thought of it made his head split. He was Arthas Menethil, of that there was no doubt. But at the same time... he was not.
His very first memory was not the cry of a newborn, nor light in his eyes. It was complete disorientation and the hum of unfamiliar voices. Then, his tiny body was lifted by someone's strong arms, and a man with a heavy crown on his head pronounced the name that became both a blessing and a sentence for him.
"Arthas!"
He was born in the palace of Lordaeron, but his mind held memories of a completely different life, of another world. He did not know where they came from. He just knew. And this was his greatest secret, his eternal burden.
The second secret was even more dangerous. Because of them, he had lived for nineteen years in a state of constant readiness. The palace was safe, his father's knights were reliable. But he himself, his personality, his essence—that was the main threat.
The title of prince gave him no sense of security. On the contrary, it only emphasized how high he would have to fall.
The planet on which he happened to be born was called Azeroth. Once, long ago, in time immemorial, there was only one supercontinent here—Kalimdor, the "Land of eternal starlight."
Sounds beautiful. But then came the Great Sundering, a global catastrophe that tore the world to pieces. Now, the largest continents were two: Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms. And he, Arthas, was the prince of the most powerful human kingdom on the latter.
A pretty good deal, isn't it? As if. For a person who knew all the inside details, the fate of this planet looked like a script for a disaster movie rated "terrible".
Let's start with the gods. The local creator-gods, the mighty Titans, had long fallen at the hand of their mad brother, Sargeras. Their physical bodies were destroyed, but the fallen titan did not rest. He managed to capture a couple of their soul incarnations, and now he is trying to break their will with monstrous tortures to turn the entire Pantheon into his dark servants. Besides, he clearly wants to destroy Azeroth.
For now, he could not appear here in person, but it was only a matter of time. In twenty or thirty years, according to the most optimistic forecasts, the legion of demons would arrive here "on tour." And that was only the external threat.
Inside the planet itself, in its depths, slumbered entities no less terrible—the Old Gods. Cosmic parasites, nightmares of flesh and tentacles, capable of driving one mad with their whispers alone. The seals placed by the Titans to contain them had long rotted and resembled Swiss cheese. Should one of these creatures truly awaken, all life on Azeroth would be turned into a bloody mess, and the planet into their personal branch of hell.
In a situation where all your "patrons" are dead, and your home is sitting on a powder keg with two fuses, by all logic, some kind of Chosen One should appear. A hero who will save everyone, overcome the odds, and change fate.
Alas, this was not that kind of story. In Azeroth, for all its magic, mortals remained mortals. What mortals—even the local demigods looked like nothing more than annoying flies compared to Sargeras or the Old Gods.
And the cherry on this cake of despair—the dragons. The five great Dragon Aspects, to whom the titans entrusted the protection of the world. Well, one of them, Neltharion, the Earth-Warder, had long gone mad and become Deathwing. Another, Malygos, the lord of magic, was in the deepest depression after the demise of his flight. And the remaining three—Alexstrasza, Nozdormu, and Ysera—preferred not to interfere until the world was truly burning with blue fire. No help could be expected from them.
But the biggest, most absurd, and most inevitable threat to him was not Sargeras, nor the Old Gods. It was one of those very "good guys"—Nozdormu, the Aspect of Time.
This bronze dragon and his entire flight were obsessed with preserving the "true timeline." And Arthas, with his knowledge of the future and his firm intention not to merge with the Lich King, was the main anomaly for them. A living bug in the system.
If they discovered him... and they would discover him, it was only a matter of time... they would not bother with long investigations. They would simply find a point in the past where he was still weak and defenseless, and either erase him from history or reformat his memory. Both options were unacceptable to him.
Therefore, for all nineteen years, he had lived trying to keep a low profile. He played the role of Prince Arthas, as he was supposed to be, with all his might. Self-deception, of course, but what else was there left to do?
True, in all these years he had not seen a single bronze dragon. Maybe the one responsible for his sector of time simply slept through the alarm?
Be that as it may, now that he had become a paladin, he was no longer defenseless. He could probably handle a rank-and-file agent of time. But if Nozdormu himself or one of his ancient pals were to appear... then there would be no options.
But Arthas was not going to sit idly by and wait for them to come and "fix" him. He had not endured all this for that. And while everyone around him admired his modesty, a plan had long been maturing in his head.
Acquiring the power of a paladin was only the first step. Now, it was time to launch the main protocol.
His goal was not just to survive. He wanted more. He wanted Lordaeron not just to survive, but to become truly great.
Currently, the kingdom, although considered the strongest among humans, was, in fact, slowly sinking. In the face of the enemies that Arthas knew of, all of Lordaeron's power only meant that it would fall one day later than the others.
His father, King Terenas, had grown old. He was still a terror in the council and a skilled diplomat, but his grip and foresight were no longer the same. The economy was straining under the burden of maintaining the internment camps for orc prisoners—a heavy legacy of the past war.
The fact that the kingdom was still afloat was largely due to Arthas himself. The old king, fortunately, trusted his son more and more. In the original story, this trust doomed them both. But now, everything was different. Arthas had already rectified many issues. Only the last anchor remained, dragging the kingdom to the bottom—the camps for the orcs.
Solve this problem. Shed the dead weight. And then Lordaeron would become stronger than ever. This was the key. Control over the strongest human kingdom, and in perspective, over the entire Alliance, would give him the resources to fight the real threats.
And the orcs? Let them find their new warchief. In the coming war with the Legion, good cannon fodder will not be superfluous.
Sitting at the feast table, surrounded by admiring paladins, Arthas smiled. In his head, the plan was taking on a crystal clarity. And the first springboard to its execution would be the resolution of the "orc question."