The Sunwell no longer shone as it once did.
Its light, once pure, radiant, eternal, had become something else entirely. It pulsed now with an unnatural rhythm, its golden brilliance tainted by shadows that writhed beneath the surface like something alive, something watching.
Something changed. At its center, Kel'Thuzad rose. Not as he had been. Not as a man. But as something beyond life and death.
His form hovered just above the corrupted waters, robes drifting as though caught in an unseen current. Flesh had long since lost its meaning, what remained was bone and magic, a skeletal visage crowned by cold, burning eyes that gleamed with unholy intelligence.
A Lich. The ritual had been completed. And yet not perfectly.
Kel'Thuzad lifted one hand slowly, studying the faint flicker of power that gathered at his fingertips. Arcane energy obeyed him, bending to his will without resistance but there was a subtle instability beneath it. A flaw.
"…incomplete," he murmured.
His voice echoed strangely, layered with whispers that did not belong to him alone.
Arthas stood nearby, Frostmourne resting at his side, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"You have been restored," he said.
A statement. Not reassurance. Kel'Thuzad inclined his head slightly.
"Restored, yes," he replied. "But not whole."
His gaze drifted toward the Sunwell beneath him.
"The ritual was… altered."
He did not need to explain further. Arthas understood. Something had been taken. Removed. Before the completion. But it did not matter. Not truly.
Because even diminished, Kel'Thuzad was still a Lich. Still powerful. Still dangerous. And still necessary.
"The time for reflection is limited," Arthas said.
Kel'Thuzad's hollow gaze shifted back to him.
"Yes," he said softly. "Because this was never the end." A pause. "It is only the beginning."
The air grew colder. The shadows around them deepened. And from somewhere far beyond the physical world, a presence stirred. Not here. Not visible. But watching. Waiting. The Lich King.
Kel'Thuzad bowed his head slightly, as though listening to something only he could hear. Then he spoke.
"The next phase has begun."
Arthas remained still. Silent. But attentive.
Kel'Thuzad's voice took on a deeper resonance, as though echoing with a will greater than his own.
"The Scourge has secured its foothold. The Sunwell has been claimed. The first objective complete." He paused. "But the true purpose… lies ahead."
Arthas' grip on Frostmourne tightened slightly.
"Speak."
Kel'Thuzad straightened, his skeletal form radiating quiet authority.
"The Burning Legion must be summoned."
The words fell like a decree. Ancient. Unavoidable. Arthas did not react outwardly. But within there was recognition. This had always been the path. Kel'Thuzad continued.
"The Lich King commands it. The gateway must be opened. Archimonde must be brought into this world."
The name alone seemed to darken the air. A being of immense power. A harbinger of destruction. Not a servant but a master.
"And how is this to be done?" Arthas asked.
Kel'Thuzad's gaze sharpened.
"There is a way."
The Scourge moved once more. Silvermoon was left behind. Not abandoned but conquered. Its streets now belonged to the dead. Its light, extinguished.
Arthas did not look back as he led the army forward. There was nothing left to see. Nothing left to claim. Because the true objective lay elsewhere.
They traveled south. Through lands already scarred by war. Through forests that had withered beneath the touch of undeath. The Scourge marched in silence, their numbers undiminished, their purpose unwavering.
At their head, Arthas and Kel'Thuzad. One the blade. The other is the mind. Together, the will of the Lich King made manifest.
"The location is near," Kel'Thuzad said after some time.
They stood upon a rise overlooking a rugged stretch of land, jagged and broken, marked by signs of recent activity. Encampments. Fortifications. And something else. Something darker.
Arthas' gaze narrowed.
"…orcs."
Blackrock. Remnants of a shattered Horde. But they were not alone. Within the encampment something pulsed. A presence. Demonic. Unstable.
Kel'Thuzad's voice lowered.
"A gate," he said. "Still functional."
Arthas stepped forward.
"Then we will use it."
The assault was swift. Decisive. The orcs fought. Of course they did. With fury. With desperation. But against the Scourge, it was meaningless.
Ghouls tore through their ranks. Abominations crushed their defenses. Necromancers raised their fallen, turning strength into weakness, allies into enemies.
Arthas moved through them like a storm. Frostmourne cut down all who stood before him, each life feeding the blade, each death strengthening the force that drove him forward.
Kel'Thuzad followed, his magic weaving through the battlefield, dismantling resistance with terrifying precision. Within minutes, it was over. The encampment fell.
At its center, the gate stood. A structure of dark stone and twisted metal, its surface etched with runes that pulsed faintly with demonic energy. The air around it shimmered unnaturally, as though reality itself resisted its presence.
Kel'Thuzad approached slowly.
"Primitive," he murmured. "But sufficient."
He raised his hand. Power gathered. Arcane and necromantic energies intertwined, feeding into the gate, awakening it. The runes flared. The air tore open.
And beyond it, darkness. Endless. Burning. Alive. A presence emerged. Not physically. But undeniably. A voice. Deep. Ancient. Overwhelming.
"Who… calls?"
The ground trembled beneath its weight. Kel'Thuzad bowed deeply.
"Archimonde," he said. "We serve the will of the Lich King." A pause. Heavy. Judging.
"I see you."
The voice grew sharper. More focused.
"And you have succeeded."
Arthas stepped forward. He did not bow. He did not kneel.
"I have done as commanded," he said.
There was no pride in his voice. Only fact. Archimonde's presence lingered. Studying. Weighing. Then—
"Your usefulness continues."
The words were neither praise nor threat. Simply the truth. Kel'Thuzad spoke again.
"The next step, my lord." A moment passed. "A tome," Archimonde said. "A relic of power."
The air seemed to tighten.
"The spellbook of Medivh."
The name carried weight. History. Power. Legacy.
"The last Guardian's knowledge must be reclaimed," Archimonde continued. "Within it lies the means to open a gateway—one that will allow my passage into your world."
Kel'Thuzad nodded.
"We know of it."
"Then you will retrieve it." A pause. "It lies within Dalaran."
The city of mages. A place of immense power. And formidable defense. Arthas did not hesitate.
"Then we will take it."
Archimonde's presence flickered. Satisfied.
"Do so," he said. "And the Legion will come."
The connection severed. The gate fell silent.
For a moment, there was only stillness. Then, Kel'Thuzad straightened.
"The path is clear," he said.
Arthas turned. His gaze was already shifting northward. Towards Dalaran. Toward the next conquest.
"Then we march."
Behind them, the Scourge stirred. Awaiting command. Awaiting purpose. And as they began to move once more, the world itself seemed to darken.
Because what came next would not be the fall of a kingdom. But the beginning of something far worse.
Dalaran stood untouched. Where Silvermoon had burned, where its golden towers had fallen into ruin beneath the relentless tide of the Scourge, the violet spires of Dalaran rose in defiant serenity.
Suspended between earth and sky by ancient magic, the city gleamed like a jewel, untouched by the devastation that had consumed the lands around it.
But that serenity was an illusion. Because beneath it lay preparation. Anticipation. Resolve. The Kirin Tor had not been blind. They had watched. They had learned. And now they waited.
At the outskirts of Dalaran, the earth itself had changed. Grass had withered into brittle gray. Trees stood twisted and lifeless, their branches clawing at the sky as if in silent protest. The air grew colder with every passing moment, heavy with the unmistakable presence of death.
And at the edge of that stillness, the Scourge gathered. An army beyond counting.
Ranks of skeletal warriors stood in silent formation, their empty eye sockets fixed upon the distant city. Ghouls crouched low, twitching with barely restrained hunger.
Abominations loomed like grotesque monuments to decay, their stitched flesh quivering as they awaited command.
Necromancers whispered among themselves, their voices low and reverent as they channeled dark energies into the ground beneath them, preparing the battlefield for what was to come.
At the center of it all, Arthas stood. Still. Unmoving. Frostmourne rested in his grasp, its runes glowing faintly, pulsing with a quiet, insatiable hunger. The blade seemed eager, as though it could already taste what lay ahead.
Beside him, Kel'Thuzad hovered slightly above the ground, his skeletal form radiating a cold, oppressive aura. His hollow gaze was fixed upon the city, the faint flicker of arcane defenses reflecting within his burning eyes.
"Such a magnificent construct," Kel'Thuzad murmured. "To think… it will soon fall."
Arthas said nothing. Because there was nothing to admire. Only something to conquer.
The gates of Dalaran shimmered. Not physically. But magically.
A faint distortion rippled through the air before the city's entrance, a barrier invisible to the untrained eye yet undeniable in its presence. It pulsed softly, layers upon layers of arcane protection woven together with meticulous precision.
It was not merely a defense. It was a declaration. You shall not pass.
Arthas stepped forward. The Scourge shifted behind him, the faint rustle of countless undead echoing across the silent field. Frostmourne lifted slightly, its glow intensifying as he approached the threshold. Then, he spoke.
"Wizards of the Kirin Tor!" his voice rang out, cold and commanding, carrying effortlessly across the distance. "I am Arthas Menethil, first of the Lich King's death knights!"
The air itself seemed to tighten.
"I demand that you open your gates and surrender to the might of the Scourge!"
The words echoed. Then—Silence.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the air shimmered. And from within the barrier, figures emerged. Three riders. Their forms solidified as they crossed the threshold, arcane energy trailing faintly behind them like remnants of a spell.
At their head—Antonidas. The Archmage of Dalaran. His presence was calm, composed, his long robes flowing gently despite the stillness of the air. His staff rested lightly in his hand, yet the power contained within it was unmistakable.
On either side of him rode two knights, their armor gleaming, their expressions resolute.
They stopped a short distance away. Facing Arthas.
For a moment, they simply regarded one another. Then, Antonidas spoke.
"Greetings, Prince Arthas," he said, his tone measured, almost conversational. "How fares your noble father?"
The words hung in the air. A subtle jab. A reminder. Of what had been. Arthas' expression did not change.
"Lord Antonidas," he replied evenly. "There's no need to be snide."
But beneath the calm, there was something colder. Something final. Because the past no longer mattered.
Antonidas studied him. Not the man he had once known. But what he had become. And in that moment there was no doubt.
"…we have prepared for your coming," Antonidas said. His voice carried quiet authority, the weight of centuries of knowledge and power behind it.
"My brethren and I have erected auras that will destroy any undead that pass through them."
He raised his staff. And with a simple motion, the unseen became visible. The air before the gates ignited.
Lines of light appeared, intricate and interwoven, forming vast, overlapping fields of arcane energy. They pulsed with brilliance, humming softly as they stretched across the battlefield like an invisible wall made manifest.
Each aura shimmered with destructive potential. Pure. Focused. Absolute. Any undead that crossed it would be annihilated.
The Scourge stilled. Even they could sense it. Kel'Thuzad's gaze sharpened.
"Fascinating," he murmured. "Layered defensive matrices… elegantly constructed."
Arthas remained unmoved.
"Your petty magic will not stop me, Antonidas."
Antonidas' expression did not change.
"Pull your troops back," he said calmly. "Or we will be forced to unleash our full powers against you." A pause. "Make your choice, death knight."
For a moment, silence. The tension between them hung thick in the air, like the calm before a storm. Then without another word— Antonidas raised his staff once more.
Arcane light enveloped him and the two knights beside him. And in an instant, they vanished. Gone. Returned to the safety of Dalaran.
The battlefield fell silent once more. The glowing auras pulsed steadily, their light unwavering. A barrier. A challenge. A line drawn.
Kel'Thuzad drifted forward slightly, his gaze scanning the intricate layers of magic before them.
"I sense it," he said.
Arthas did not look at him.
"Then speak."
Kel'Thuzad's voice lowered.
"There are three focal points," he said. "Three separate spellcasters maintaining these auras."
His skeletal fingers curled slightly, as though grasping unseen threads.
"If you find them…" A pause. "And kill them…" The faintest hint of anticipation entered his voice. "The auras will disperse."
Arthas' grip tightened on Frostmourne. His gaze lifted. Toward the city. Toward the spires that stood so confidently against him. So certain of their defense.
"…then we begin," he said.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. But with absolute certainty.
Behind him, the Scourge stirred. The stillness broke. And as the first wave surged forward, testing the limits of the glowing barrier, the war for Dalaran began. Far within the city, The Kirin Tor prepared. And above them all, the Violet Citadel shimmered.