Two journeys began at nearly the same time. One sailed north into the frozen darkness. The other traveled toward the last peaceful kingdom of the Eastern lands.
Both paths would shape the fate of the world. And neither traveler fully understood the consequences waiting ahead.
The winds of Northrend howled like restless spirits, clawing at armor, biting into flesh, and whispering of things long buried beneath the ice. Arthas Menethil marched onward regardless, his golden hair now dulled by frost, his once-radiant armor scarred by war and stained by sleepless nights.
Behind him trailed what remained of his forces, loyal soldiers hardened by cold, fear, and the unyielding will of their prince.
Before them loomed the jagged silhouette of Drak'Tharon Keep, its ancient stones blackened by time and shadow. It stood not as a fortress of defense, but as a monument, silent, foreboding, and heavy with secrets. Somewhere beyond, Arthas knew, lay the blade that would grant him the power to end it all.
To end him.
"Mal'Ganis…" Arthas murmured, his voice barely audible over the storm.
As if summoned by hatred itself, the air twisted.
A figure emerged from the swirling snow, tall, gaunt, and wreathed in malice. Mal'Ganis. His burning eyes gleamed with cruel amusement, his lips curling into a knowing smile.
"So, the prince arrives at last," the dreadlord said, his voice echoing unnaturally through the frozen expanse. "You chase me across the ends of the world… and yet you do not understand."
Arthas gripped his warhammer tighter. "Your death is all I need to understand."
Mal'Ganis chuckled. "You believe this is your story, your vengeance. But you are merely walking the path laid before you. And at its end…" He leaned forward, his grin widening. "You will find not victory but your own death."
Before Arthas could strike, the demon dissolved into mist, leaving behind only the echo of his laughter.
The prince stood unmoving for a moment, breath steaming in the cold air. Then he turned sharply.
"Muradin," he said. "We go now."
Muradin Bronzebeard, stout and weathered, stepped forward with a grim look. "Aye. But lad… we dinnae ken what lies ahead. Ye've pushed these men far enough."
Arthas did not respond. His eyes were fixed ahead, on something unseen, something calling.
"I will not fail," he said quietly. "Not again."
The waygate shimmered with ancient magic, its runes flickering faintly beneath layers of ice. It was a relic of a forgotten age, humming with power that felt… wrong.
"Ye sure about this?" Muradin asked, glancing warily at the structure.
Arthas stepped forward without hesitation. "This is the path."
With a flash of arcane light, the world twisted—and then snapped back into place. They emerged into a cavern unlike any other.
The air was unnaturally still, heavy with a presence that pressed against the mind. Massive pillars of ice rose like cathedral spires, their surfaces etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light.
At the heart of the cavern, encased within a jagged prison of frost, was the blade. Frostmourne. Even from a distance, Arthas could feel it. A pull. A whisper. A promise. But they were not alone.
A figure stepped forward, cloaked in ethereal light—neither fully alive nor truly dead. The Guardian.
"Turn back," the being intoned, its voice echoing with solemn authority. "This blade is not meant for mortal hands."
Arthas stepped forward. "It is meant for me."
"It will claim your soul," the Guardian warned. "It will take everything you are—and everything you could become."
"I have nothing left to lose," Arthas replied coldly.
Muradin stepped in. "That's not true, lad! Ye've still got yer men—yer kingdom—yer people!"
"My people are dying," Arthas snapped, his voice rising. "Because of him! Because I was too weak to stop him!"
The Guardian raised its weapon. "Then I will stop you."
The battle was swift, brutal, and inevitable. Steel met spectral force. Magic clashed against sheer determination. In the end, the Guardian fell, dissolving into fading light.
The path was clear. Arthas approached the blade. Muradin hurried after him, brushing snow and ice from a nearby inscription. His eyes widened as he read.
"Arthas… wait! There's a warning!"
The prince did not stop.
Muradin's voice grew urgent. "Whosoever takes up this blade shall wield power eternal… just as the blade rends flesh, so must power scar the spirit…"
He turned, desperation in his voice. "The blade's cursed! Leave it be, lad! We can still go home!"
Arthas stood before Frostmourne, its icy prison shimmering faintly.
"Home?" he echoed softly.
"There is no home… not until Mal'Ganis is dead."
He raised his voice, speaking not to Muradin, but to the unseen forces within the cavern.
"I will give anything… or pay any price… if only you will help me save my people."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the ice began to crack.
A deafening shatter echoed through the cavern as Frostmourne broke free, shards of ice exploding outward like shrapnel.
"Arthas—!" Muradin shouted—
And then he was struck.
A jagged shard pierced his armor, sending him crashing to the ground, unmoving. Time seemed to slow.
Arthas turned. For a brief moment, just a fleeting second, something flickered in his eyes. Concern. Doubt. Humanity. He took a step toward Muradin, and then he heard it.
A voice. Cold. Ancient. Commanding.
Take up the blade.
Arthas hesitated.
Claim your destiny.
His grip on his warhammer tightened.
Save them.
Slowly, deliberately, Arthas released his weapon. Light's Vengeance fell to the frozen ground with a hollow clang. The voice grew stronger.
Take the blade… and become what you must.
Without another glance at Muradin, Arthas reached out—and grasped the blade.
A surge of power coursed through him, icy and absolute. His breath stilled. His heartbeat slowed. And then… silence.
When Arthas turned back, his expression was different. Colder. Empty. Muradin lay behind him, forgotten.
The battle that followed was not a struggle, it was a slaughter. With Frostmourne in hand, Arthas carved through Mal'Ganis's forces like a storm given form. The undead fell before him, shattered and scattered, unable to withstand the sheer force of his will.
The demon's stronghold burned. And at its heart, Mal'Ganis awaited.
"You have taken the blade," the dreadlord said, his tone no longer mocking—but cautious. "Do you hear it now? The voice… of your true master."
Arthas stepped forward, Frostmourne gleaming with a cold, unnatural light.
"Yes," he said.
"And what does it tell you?" Mal'Ganis asked, a hint of unease creeping into his voice.
Arthas raised the blade.
"It tells me… to end your life."
For the first time, Mal'Ganis looked afraid. The clash was brief.
Frostmourne cut through the demon's defenses, through his very essence. Mal'Ganis let out a final, echoing cry as his form shattered into nothingness.
Silence fell. The war was over. But something far worse had begun.
Arthas stood alone in the frozen wastes, the wind howling around him. His soldiers… his men… were gone. Or perhaps he had left them.
It no longer mattered. The voice guided him now. It whispered of purpose. Of destiny. Of a new path, one that led ever deeper into darkness.
Behind him, the ruins of battle faded into the storm. And somewhere, far from Arthas's awareness… Mal'Ganis still lived. Watching. Waiting. Smiling.
While the prince marched into the frozen north… Another traveler moved quietly through the forests of Quel'Thalas.
The sunlight filtering through the golden trees illuminated the ancient beauty of the high elven lands. Crystal rivers flowed gently beneath elegant bridges. Arcane spires shimmered faintly in the distance. This kingdom still stood untouched by the plague ravaging Lordaeron.
But that peace would not last forever. Riding along the forest road was Jaina Proudmoore. The journey from Dalaran had taken several days. Her mind had remained restless the entire time.
The memory of Stratholme still haunted her. But even more troubling were the warnings she had heard. The prophet. And Leylin. Two voices.
Both sensed a disaster long before anyone else. She needed answers. And she believed Leylin might have them.
Soon the familiar rooftops of Windrunner Village appeared through the forest. The home of the famous Windrunner family. A peaceful settlement resting near the edge of the high elven forests.
Rangers moved gracefully through the village streets. Children ran between houses laughing. It felt like a completely different world compared to the chaos spreading across Lordaeron.
As Jaina dismounted, several rangers recognized her. One of them nodded respectfully.
"Lady Proudmoore."
"You've returned."
Jaina smiled faintly.
"Yes."
"I need to speak with Leylin."
The ranger pointed toward a large house overlooking the village.
"He's been inside studying for days."
Jaina nodded and walked quickly toward the building.
Inside the quiet study, arcane runes floated slowly in the air like drifting stars. Complex magical instruments surrounded a glowing formation etched across the floor. Standing within the circle of runes was Leylin.
His eyes were closed as streams of arcane energy flowed through the formation. Suddenly, his eyes opened. He turned calmly toward the door.
Moments later it opened. And Jaina Proudmoore stepped inside. For a brief moment, neither spoke. Then Leylin gave a faint smile.
"You came sooner than I expected."
Jaina blinked in surprise.
"You knew I was coming?"
Leylin gestured toward the glowing arcane instruments.
"The magical disturbances across the continent are becoming increasingly violent."
"And your presence… was not difficult to predict."
Jaina took a slow breath.
"Then you already know what happened in Stratholme."
Leylin's expression grew slightly more serious.
"Yes."
"And I assume Arthas Menethil has already sailed to Northrend."
Jaina froze.
"How did you—"
Leylin simply looked at her calmly.
"Because that was always the most likely outcome."
A heavy silence filled the room. Jaina slowly stepped closer.
"Leylin…"
Her voice carried both worry and urgency.
"You warned me something terrible was coming. And everything you feared is happening."
She looked directly into his eyes.
"So tell me honestly…"
Her voice dropped slightly.
"What happens next?"
Outside the window, the golden forests of Quel'Thalas swayed peacefully beneath the sunlight. But Leylin knew that peace was only temporary. Because far to the north…
The prince of Lordaeron had already stepped onto the path that would eventually bring the Scourge to the gates of the high elven kingdom. And the fall of Quel'Thalas… It was slowly approaching.
Morning sunlight filtered through the tall golden trees of Quel'Thalas, casting long beams of warm light across the quiet streets of Windrunner Village. The settlement had always been a peaceful place.
Nestled near the forests that bordered the lands of Silvermoon City, Windrunner Village served as both home and training ground for the legendary rangers of Quel'Thalas.
Birdsong echoed through the branches. Rangers practiced archery in the training fields. Children ran along the cobblestone paths laughing freely.
For now, the horrors sweeping through Lordaeron had not reached these golden forests. Yet inside the large manor overlooking the village, the mood was far less peaceful.
Within the study room, glowing arcane diagrams floated slowly around the chamber. The air hummed with controlled magical energy as instruments and enchanted crystals remained suspended above a large magical formation carved across the floor.
Standing beside the formation was Leylin. Opposite him stood Jaina Proudmoore, her expression filled with urgency.
She had barely slept after arriving the previous night. The weight of recent events pressed heavily upon her mind. Stratholme. The plague. Arthas. And now the prince had already sailed for Northrend.
Jaina looked directly at Leylin.
"So tell me honestly… What happens next?"
For several seconds, Leylin remained silent. His calm gaze rested on the floating arcane instruments, as though carefully choosing how much truth he should reveal.
Finally, he spoke.
"Arthas will not return as the same person he was."
Jaina's heart skipped a beat.
"What do you mean?"
Leylin walked slowly toward the window overlooking the village. The golden forest swayed gently in the morning wind.
"Somewhere in Northrend lies a famed runeblade. A cursed weapon. One that devours the soul of its wielder."
Jaina frowned.
"A cursed weapon?"
Leylin nodded slightly.
"Its name is Frostmourne."
The moment the name left his lips, the air in the room felt strangely colder.
"If Arthas finds it… he will claim it. And when he does…"
Leylin's voice became quieter.
"The prince of Lordaeron will be lost forever."
Jaina stared at him in disbelief.
"You're saying Arthas will become—"
She could barely finish the sentence. Leylin did not immediately answer. But the silence itself carried the answer.