Far from the golden forests of Quel'Thalas… Far from the fragile hopes of Azeroth's kingdoms…
Beyond the reach of sunlight, where even time seemed to crawl beneath the weight of eternal winter—
Northrend stirred. The death of Ner'zhul had not been an end. It had been a beginning.
Draenor had died screaming. When the portals tore the world apart, reality itself fractured beneath the weight of Ner'zhul's reckless ambition. The old orc shaman had felt it, the collapse of his home, the screams of his people, the unraveling of the Horde he once sought to lead.
But he had never been allowed the dignity of death. As his physical form disintegrated in the collapsing vortex between worlds, his spirit had been seized. Bound. Dragged through the Twisting Nether like prey caught in an invisible snare.
And at the end of that endless torment… Kil'jaeden awaited him.
The Deceiver towered in infernal majesty, his burning eyes radiating hatred and amusement in equal measure. Before such a being, Ner'zhul had been less than dust. His defiance, his pride, his past, all stripped away with cruel efficiency.
Kil'jaeden had not screamed. He whispered. And that whisper had been worse than annihilation.
"You sought power," the demon lord had said, voice smooth as molten metal. "Now… you will serve it."
Ner'zhul's soul was torn apart and reforged in agony. His consciousness stretched, fractured, and remolded into something that barely resembled the orc he once was. His body, long destroyed, was replaced by an armored prison of enchanted ice and rune-carved metal, forged by demonic artisans and bound with spells older than the orcish race itself.
Within that prison, Ner'zhul's spirit screamed. But he could not die. The Frozen Throne descended upon Azeroth like a falling star.
The glacier struck Northrend with apocalyptic force, carving deep into the barren wastes of Icecrown. Entire mountain ranges shattered beneath the impact. Frozen storms raged for weeks, reshaping the landscape into a labyrinth of jagged ice and endless tundra.
And in the heart of the crater… The Frozen Throne stood.
A colossal spire of black ice, pulsing faintly with necromantic energy, radiating a cold that was not merely physical, but spiritual. The air itself seemed to freeze around it, bending sound, light, and even thought into something distorted and unnatural.
Within the crystalline prison at its peak, Ner'zhul awakened. Not as an orc. Not even as a spirit. He awakened as something far more terrible.
The Lich King.
At first, his awareness was fractured. Fragments of memory surfaced like corpses beneath frozen waters, visions of Draenor's crimson skies, the Shadowmoon clan's ancient rituals, the betrayal of Gul'dan, the desperate gamble that shattered his world.
Then came the whisper. Kil'jaeden's voice remained embedded within the runes of the Frozen Throne, an ever-present reminder of Ner'zhul's new purpose.
Build me an army. Destroy Azeroth. Prepare the world for the Legion's return.
Ner'zhul resisted. For a time. But resistance was meaningless. His soul had been reshaped into a conduit for necromantic dominion. His thoughts began to expand outward, spreading like frost across Northrend's lifeless expanse. His consciousness seeped into the land itself, flowing through glaciers, caverns, and buried ruins long forgotten by mortal history.
And as his awareness grew… He discovered something. Death never truly rested.
The first to answer his call were the dead of Northrend itself. Ancient warriors frozen beneath the ice. Tribes lost to starvation. Explorers swallowed by blizzards centuries prior. Their bones stirred as Ner'zhul's will spread across the continent like a gathering storm.
Corpses rose from snow-choked graves. Frozen skeletons clawed free from glacial prisons. The tundra trembled as the first ranks of the Scourge assembled in silent obedience.
Ner'zhul watched them through a thousand empty eye sockets, learning, adapting, refining his control. Unlike the crude necromancy of warlocks, his power did not merely reanimate, it commanded. Every undead creature functioned as an extension of his will, their thoughts replaced by cold, perfect unity.
He felt no fatigue. No doubt. No mercy. Kil'jaeden had made him into a weapon. And weapons only improved with use.
Soon, he sought stronger servants. Northrend was not empty.
Scattered across the frozen continent were tribes of humans and vrykul remnants, isolated settlements that believed the endless winter protected them from the horrors of the wider world.
They never saw the Scourge coming. Villages vanished overnight. Hunters tracking elk returned as hollow-eyed revenants.
Entire clans were swallowed by the Lich King's expanding dominion, their souls twisted into banshees, their bodies reforged into abominations, skeletal warriors, and frostbound monstrosities.
Each conquest strengthened him. Each fallen life added another thread to his ever-growing web of psychic control. But Ner'zhul sought more than numbers. He sought permanence.
The citadel rose slowly. Drawn from ice, bone, and necromantic architecture that defied mortal engineering, Icecrown Citadel formed around the Frozen Throne like a living fortress. Undead laborers worked tirelessly, sculpting towering spires, labyrinthine halls, and rune-etched battlements.
The structure pulsed with unholy energy, functioning as both fortress and amplifier for the Lich King's power. Every chamber enhanced his psychic reach. Every tower extended his ability to command the dead across vast distances.
Within its halls, new horrors were born. Necromancers raised by his will experimented endlessly, crafting new forms of undeath, flesh stitched with frost magic, constructs fueled by captured souls, beasts reanimated into war machines that required neither rest nor sustenance.
The Scourge evolved. And Northrend began to die. Yet there was one power on the continent that did not bow.
Deep beneath the frozen wastes, within vast subterranean kingdoms carved through living stone and enchanted chitin, the Nerubian Empire endured.
Ancient and proud, the nerubians were masters of subterranean architecture and arcane weaving that rivaled even elven craftsmanship. Their cities stretched across miles of tunnels, connected by vast caverns illuminated by bioluminescent crystal webs.
They had survived countless winters. They had repelled invading monstrosities before. And they recognized the Lich King for what he truly was. An abomination.
The first clashes came quietly. Scourge scouts vanished beneath the ice. Undead patrols disappeared into collapsing tunnels rigged with intricate traps designed to sever necromantic control.
Nerubian warriors, towering arachnid guardians clad in obsidian armor, struck with ruthless precision, destroying entire undead battalions before retreating into labyrinthine depths.
For the first time since his rebirth… Ner'zhul encountered resistance.
Unlike mindless tribes or scattered survivors, the nerubians possessed strategy, coordination, and powerful arcane defenses that disrupted his psychic domination. Their architecture interfered with necromantic energy, their priests wielded ancient rituals capable of severing his influence from captured corpses.
The Lich King felt something unfamiliar. Annoyance. Then fascination. These creatures could not be easily absorbed into the Scourge. Their physiology resisted simple reanimation, their societal structure complicated infiltration, and their subterranean empire shielded them from direct assault.
Which meant… They had to be eradicated. The War of the Spider began.
Undead legions marched across the ice in numbers never before witnessed. Frost wyrms, ancient dragons raised from Northrend's glaciers, descended from storm clouds, shattering nerubian surface outposts. Gargoyles darkened the skies while massive abominations smashed through tunnel entrances.
But the nerubians were ready. They collapsed entire cavern systems to bury Scourge armies. Their crypt lords commanded swarms of burrowing horrors that shredded undead ranks from below. Arcane weavers wove spells that severed necromantic threads, causing entire battalions to collapse lifeless once more.
The conflict raged for years beneath Northrend's frozen crust. It was a war fought in darkness, echoing through miles of tunnels soaked in ichor and frozen blood.
And slowly… Inevitably… The Scourge adapted.
Every fallen nerubian became a subject of study. Necromancers experimented relentlessly, learning to corrupt their unique biology, forging twisted mockeries known as crypt fiends, once-proud guardians reshaped into grotesque servants of undeath.
Each breakthrough weakened the empire. Each fallen city brought the Lich King closer to total dominion.
From atop the Frozen Throne, Ner'zhul observed it all. His consciousness now stretched across continents of ice and cavern. He felt every battle, every death, every victory. The Scourge moved with terrifying coordination, an army without fear, fatigue, or dissent.
And still… Kil'jaeden's whisper lingered.
This is only the beginning.
The Lich King's gaze, though he had no eyes, turned southward. Across endless oceans, across distant kingdoms unaware of the storm gathering in the north.
Azeroth slept peacefully. For now.
Within Icecrown Citadel, necromantic energies surged as the Scourge prepared for wars yet to come. The nerubians still fought, their empire refusing to collapse completely, but their fall had become a matter of time rather than possibility.
And encased within his frozen prison, the Lich King extended his will further, probing, searching, waiting. Somewhere beyond Northrend's storms, he sensed potential champions… future harbingers of death… souls that would one day kneel before the Frozen Throne.
The world had not yet realized it. But the next great war had already begun. In silence. In ice. In death.
Northrend did not echo with screams. Sound itself was devoured by the ice.
Beneath the frozen crust of the continent, beneath glaciers older than recorded history and seas locked in eternal winter, the War of the Spider raged in utter silence, broken only by the grinding of stone, the collapse of caverns, and the psychic reverberations of death.
This was not a war fought beneath the sky. It was a war fought in darkness.