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(A/N: Chapter 104 will soon be on Patreon!)
(This is a 4000+ words chapter and biggest one yet, enjoy!)
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Following their latest victory, the Alliance's armed forces were granted several days to both celebrate and recover.
Although morale was at an all-time high, Alastor wanted his soldiers to have a chance to breathe after everything they had endured.
Once the rest period ended, he dispatched multiple combat groups throughout the territories of Lordaeron.
Each group was reinforced with a significant number of specialized personnel—mages, priests, paladins, druids, and other experts tasked with locating enemy remnants and lingering fel corruption.
Their mission was simple.
Destroy any surviving pockets of enemy forces.
Purge any remaining fel taint.
And begin the long of restoring the land.
One particularly welcome development was that the Red Dragonflight had chosen not to leave following the victory at Alterac.
Instead, they elected to accompany the Alliance.
While the red dragons' fiery breath was devastating especially against corrupted enemies, that was far from the extent of their abilities.
Their magic could heal.
Restore.
And breathe new life into dying environments.
As a result, red dragons accompanied each combat group. Thanks to their natural affinity for life-based magic, the projected timeline for the purification and restoration of the corrupted lands was drastically accelerated.
Another piece of good news came in the form of restored communications.
With the destruction of the main Warp Rift, long-range communication networks were functioning normally once more.
Stratholme was contacted almost immediately.
Abbendis was overjoyed by the news of the Alliance's victories and quickly launched a more aggressive offensive against the remaining fel forces within his area of operations before arranging to rendezvous with the main army at Lordaeron for the final reclamation effort.
As for Alexstrasza, she chose to accompany the main army as it advanced toward Lordaeron.
Along the way, Alastor's forces continued purging corruption, restoring damaged lands, and eliminating scattered enemy remnants.
While having one of the Dragon Aspects accompanying them was an immense boost to both morale and combat effectiveness, marching alongside a colossal dragon could be somewhat intimidating for ordinary soldiers.
Thankfully, Alexstrasza spent most of her time in her mortal form.
Specifically, the form of a High Elf.
It made traveling with the Alliance considerably easier and prevented the younger races from constantly feeling as though they were standing beside a living mountain.
Her mortal appearance was that of an athletic yet voluptuous red-haired High Elf with deep amber-gold eyes.
The only obvious draconic traits she retained were her elegant horns.
In terms of beauty, she easily rivaled Tyrande and several other breathtakingly beautiful women Alastor knew.
As for her attire...
Well.
It was certainly a rather "liberal" interpretation of regal armor.
The first time Alastor saw her mortal form, he had genuinely struggled to figure out where he was supposed to look without appearing disrespectful.
By Azeroth, he could clearly sense the powerful enchantments woven throughout the armor.
So despite appearances suggesting it offered very little protection, Alastor knew it was likely among the strongest sets of armor on the planet.
But for fuck's sake, why was he seeing a pattern!?
First there were the Farstriders.
Then the Sentinels.
Hell, even high-ranking female mages often wore clothing that emphasized their beauty or sensuality.
Rhonin, during one particularly drunken night in Dalaran involving himself, Arthas, Kael'thas, and Danath, had once declared that this was all a deliberate conspiracy against men.
According to him, women wore such attention-grabbing outfits to distract "good" and "honest" men like themselves, feed their own vanity, and weaponize their beauty in combat.
Alastor had naturally dismissed the entire rant.
Even despite the enthusiastic support Rhonin had received from several equally drunk men nearby.
At the time, he had written it off as the usual nonsense his best friend spouted whenever alcohol was involved.
But...
Oh God.
Don't tell him that his perverted gremlin of a best friend had actually been right all along!
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The army made excellent progress toward Lordaeron city.
Partly because of the abundance of elite units and powerful heroes accompanying it.
But mostly because the enemy had been thrown into complete disarray.
With Arthas dead, the undead forces lacked almost all forms of cohesion, order and direction.
Meanwhile, the destruction of the main Warp Rift had cut off the Chaos forces from their primary source of daemonic reinforcements while simultaneously weakening both their blessings and their sorcery.
Uther, in particular, had been exceptionally active during the campaign.
The Lightbringer unleashed his fury upon every enemy unfortunate enough to cross his path.
Watching him wreak havoc across the battlefield had become another major morale boost for Alliance soldiers, especially among members of the Church and practitioners of the Holy Light.
During this period, Alastor also met another Dragon Aspect.
Nozdormu the Timeless.
King of the Bronze Dragonflight.
Like Alexstrasza, Nozdormu appeared in a mortal form.
Specifically, that of a High Elf with long silver-white hair, bronze armor, and piercing blue eyes.
...Okay, seriously.
Why was it always elves?
There were other races on the planet, you know.
The Bronze Aspect couldn't remain for long.
His responsibilities required him to constantly monitor Azeroth's local timeways to ensure that Chaos did not attempt to tamper with them.
However, before departing, he warned Alastor to remain vigilant during his journey to Quel'Thalas.
Alastor found the Time Aspect to be a stoic and patient individual, albeit an extremely cryptic one.
The dragon seemed incapable of answering a question without somehow turning it into a riddle.
Alexstrasza later explained that this was simply how Nozdormu had become after gaining dominion over time itself.
Though incredibly powerful, it was also an immense burden.
Even for a Dragon.
Alastor understood immediately.
If anything, it only increased his respect for Nozdormu.
To bear such a responsibility without breaking—or worse, succumbing to arrogance or corruption—was no small feat.
What Alastor didn't understand, however, was the complicated look Nozdormu had given him during their meeting.
What the Grey Wolf didn't know was that Nozdormu had been the very first being to notice Alastor's arrival on Azeroth within his gestation pod.
Using his mastery over time, the Bronze Aspect had quickly realized something deeply troubling.
Alastor's existence should not have been possible.
In none of the countless futures Nozdormu had observed was there ever supposed to be a child like him.
He was an anomaly.
Naturally, Nozdormu had attempted to peer into the infant's possible futures.
The result had been immediate.
And painful.
The moment he tried, a powerful backlash struck him.
Its source was unmistakable.
A foreign entity.
One that possessed immense power.
While the backlash had not been life-threatening, the message it conveyed was perfectly clear.
The child was off-limits.
That revelation had deeply unsettled Nozdormu.
As a Dragon Aspect, there were very few beings in existence who could be considered his equal.
Fewer still who could casually rebuff his attempts to perceive the future.
Yet one such being suddenly appeared and watched over the infant Primarch like a silent and unseen sentinel.
Even more frustrating was the fact that Nozdormu could never obtain a clear vision of Alastor's future.
At best, he occasionally glimpsed fragmented images that raised more questions than answers.
As a result, he became yet another individual quietly keeping an eye on the adopted Prince of Stormwind.
Watching.
Observing.
And trying to determine exactly what kind of person Alastor would become.
And whether he would ultimately prove to be a threat.
But after years of watching the boy grow into a strong, wise, and selfless hero, Nozdormu eventually laid those concerns to rest.
Now, the Bronze Aspect was no longer worried about Alastor being a threat to Azeroth.
If anything, he was worried about Alastor's "patron".
In the war against Chaos and the Scourge, many powers beyond the four Ruinous powers had begun to reveal their hands and choose sides.
The dwarven deity known as the Maker had intervened.
Cegorach had made his move.
Lileath now walked Azeroth under the name Tyrande.
Even the enigmatic Naaru had begun to act.
Hell, one of the Burning One's own champions was present in the conflict—the orc warlock Gul'dan.
And yet, despite all of this...
Alastor's patron had remained conspicuously absent.
Nozdormu knew that whoever—or whatever—it was valued Alastor immensely. Otherwise, it would never have issued that warning to him when the child had first arrived on Azeroth.
The conclusion Nozdormu eventually reached was simple.
Alastor's patron was waiting.
Waiting for all the pieces to fall into place before making its move.
The problem was that Nozdormu had absolutely no idea what those pieces were.
And that uncertainty bothered him.
All he could do was pray to the Titans that whatever plans were being set into motion would not come back to haunt Azeroth in the future.
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Alastor, Alonsus, and Uther stood within a circular chamber reinforced by both powerful magic and Holy wards.
They were not alone.
Standing behind them were Malfurion, Tyrande, Alexstrasza, and—somewhat surprisingly—one of the dwarven elders, Brontes.
The centuries-old dwarf and his brothers had arrived with the latest dwarven reinforcements and had participated in the Siege of Alterac.
Their Titan forms were among the largest and most imposing ever seen among the dwarven race.
Even Magni's Titan form wasn't as mighty as theirs.
Brontes and his brothers stood over sixteen meters tall in their transformed states.
These three "giants" wore personally crafted armor that would put most masterwork creations to shame, each piece layered with powerful enchantments and ancient runic craftsmanship.
On the battlefield, they were little short of walking disasters for the enemy.
For the Alliance, however, they were symbols of strength and resilience.
The dwarven soldiers, in particular, cheered louder than anyone whenever the ancient brothers entered the battlefield.
Serving as a reminder that the dwarves remained a race to be feared by their enemies and respected by their allies.
Especially after Arges and Steropes had quite literally grabbed a Lord of Change and torn it in half.
Did that daemon honestly think attacking them was a wise idea?
Or had it simply forgotten that the greatest runesmiths on Azeroth would naturally weave anti-magic and anti-corruption enchantments into their weapons and armor?
Regardless, that was beside the point.
Returning to the matter at hand...
The main army was now roughly three-quarters of the way to Lordaeron.
Alastor had decided that the issue of Frostmourne needed to be addressed once and for all as soon as they reached the next outpost.
The chamber they currently occupied had been prepared specifically for that purpose.
Alastor, Alonsus, and Uther stood in a triangular formation.
At the center of that formation rested Frostmourne itself, lying upon a raised stone platform conjured by Alastor.
"Let's hope this works."
Alastor quietly muttered as he prepared himself.
"I may not be the greatest authority on the Holy Light," Malfurion commented, "but a purification ritual conducted by three Saints should possess enough power to destroy most fel artifacts."
Tyrande frowned as she stared at the runeblade.
Brontes merely grunted.
"You're right about that, knife-ear."
Malfurion showed no offense at the nickname.
At this point, he was fairly certain that dwarves considered insults as a form of endearment.
"The problem isn't the blade itself."
The archdruid tilted his head.
"What do you mean?"
Before Brontes could answer, Alexstrasza spoke.
The Dragon Queen's expression was one of pure disgust as she looked at Frostmourne.
As the Life-Binder, she possessed a profound connection to life and vitality.
What she sensed from Frostmourne was the exact opposite.
In the worst possible way.
"The blade itself isn't the problem."
Her eyes narrowed.
"It's the core."
"The core?"
Alexstrasza nodded.
"The core of this weapon was forged from something that stands as the antithesis of life."
She paused briefly before correcting herself.
"No. That's not quite right."
Her expression darkened.
"It would be more accurate to say that it is an antithesis to creation itself."
Brontes crossed his arms.
"She's right."
The ancient dwarf's voice carried a rare seriousness.
"Whoever forged this blade took whatever became its core and twisted it into a mockery of life and creation, empowering it further with death magic."
He looked toward Frostmourne with open distaste.
"And whatever that core once was, it was powerful."
"Powerful enough to resist complete corruption into a Chaos artifact."
"Powerful enough to retain its own sentience."
"Powerful enough to overwhelm and dominate its wielder's mind."
This time, Alonsus interjected.
"Which is precisely why we're all gathered here."
He looked around the chamber.
"Everyone present represents the greatest authorities on Azeroth when it comes to destroying powerful artifacts and objects tainted by fel corruption."
"If the ritual fails, we can explore alternative methods and determine whether any of them prove more effective."
"Easier said than done."
Malfurion's expression remained troubled.
While the Night Elves would assist however they could, he knew that most of their current methods would likely be no more effective than a purification ritual conducted by three Saints.
Brontes might possess a viable solution.
After all, he and his brothers were arguably Azeroth's foremost experts on legendary weapons, ancient relics, and mystical artifacts.
But if even that avenue failed...
Malfurion's gaze shifted toward Tyrande and Alexstrasza.
Then the burden would likely fall upon them.
Because at that point, only truly "divine" means would remain.
"Let's begin."
Uther's voice echoed through the chamber.
Alastor and Alonsus nodded.
Both Alonsus and Uther brought their palms together and began reciting holy chants. As they prayed, their bodies became enveloped in radiant Light.
Alastor raised a hand toward Frostmourne as Holy light energy flowed through him, his own body shining with holy brilliance.
While Alastor had long known that his sacred flames were devastating against daemons, undead, and other fel creatures, he had almost exclusively used them in battle.
Not that anyone could blame him.
For more than a year, his life had consisted almost entirely of warfare.
Naturally, his first instinct had been to employ those powers as weapons.
As a result, he had never truly explored their deeper applications.
Could his sacred flames be used for more in dept purification?
Could they perhaps aid in crafting or forging?
The possibilities remained largely unexplored.
The Holy Light, however, was different.
Its effectiveness against corruption and fel influences had been proven for millennia.
The Church possessed countless rituals specifically designed to purify, seal, or destroy cursed artifacts.
Considering that the Church had existed since the days of Emperor Thoradin nearly 2,800 years ago, its practitioners had enjoyed centuries upon centuries to refine their understanding of the Light and push the limits of what mortals could accomplish through it.
Thankfully, Alastor did not need to know the intricacies of the ritual itself.
Alonsus and Uther were leading the operation.
His role was simply to maintain his flow of Holy Light and follow their guidance.
Streams of radiant energy emerged from all three men.
The beams connected together, forming a glowing triangle around Frostmourne.
Each of them occupied one point of the sacred symbol while the cursed blade rested at its center.
Three.
The sacred number of the Church.
A number representing the Three Virtues upon which much of the Church's doctrine and the Paladins' martial philosophy had been built.
Respect.
The recognition that all things within creation are connected.
It teaches that every individual is part of a greater whole and that harming others ultimately harms oneself.
Tenacity.
The unwavering dedication to the philosophy of the Light and the protection of the innocent.
It demands perseverance, conviction, and resolve even in the face of impossible odds.
Compassion.
The drive to aid others, forgive the repentant, and uphold justice not just with judgement but mercy as well.
It forms the foundation of the healing and protective arts practiced by priests and paladins alike.
As the ritual reached its first crescendo, three brilliant beams of Holy Light surged forward simultaneously and struck Frostmourne.
The blade reacted instantly.
Violently.
An eruption of deathly energy burst from the runeblade alongside waves of corrupted, ice-cold power.
The chamber's temperature plummeted.
Dark frost spread across the stone platform.
The very air seemed to groan beneath the pressure of the opposing forces colliding.
Seeing the resistance, Alastor, Alonsus, and Uther increased the intensity of their Light.
The runeblade responded with even greater fury.
Then the screaming began.
The sound froze the blood of everyone present.
Countless voices cried out in agony.
Men.
Women.
Children.
The elderly.
Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousand of anguished souls.
The actual number was impossible to comprehend!
One moment the screams merged into a single horrifying chorus.
The next they shattered into a discordant cacophony of suffering.
Alastor's eyes widened in realization.
These were not illusions.
Nor were they echoes created by magic.
They were real.
The screams belonged to the souls trapped within Frostmourne.
Every victim slain by the blade.
Every soul harvested by its servants.
Every fragment chained to its cursed existence.
All of them were crying out at once.
His jaw clenched.
Beside him, Uther's face twisted with fury while Alonsus's expression hardened into grim determination.
Without a word, all three men pushed more power into the ritual.
Radiance flooded the chamber.
The screams gradually began to weaken.
To fade.
To be purified.
For a brief moment, it seemed as though victory was within reach.
Then Alastor felt it.
A presence.
Cold.
Ancient.
Utterly devoid of emotion.
It emerged from somewhere deep within Frostmourne's core.
The sensation caught him completely off guard.
His eyes widened.
And the very next moment, after he blinked—
He was somewhere else.
Alastor looked around and immediately realized he was standing within a completely alien realm.
Or perhaps "realm" wasn't even the correct word.
Everything was pitch black.
Yet even that description felt wrong.
There was no light.
No darkness.
No sound.
No scent.
No sensation.
Nothing.
It was as if the very concepts themselves simply did not exist here.
And that unnerved him more than any battlefield ever had.
Then his gaze landed upon something.
Something that he knew with absolute certainty had not been there a moment ago.
An obsidian throne.
It possessed no ornamentation.
No decorations.
No symbols of power.
Just a simple black throne carved from what appeared to be flawless obsidian.
And seated upon it was a figure.
A blackened skeleton.
Its body was draped in tattered rags that might once have been robes.
A dark crown rested upon its skull.
At first glance, it was nothing more than a decayed corpse.
A skeleton.
Alastor had lost count of how many such things he had destroyed throughout the war against the Scourge.
Yet none of those undead horrors had ever filled him with the overwhelming dread he felt now.
Then the skeleton moved.
A single twitch.
Nothing more.
And somehow that made everything infinitely worse.
The pressure immediately intensified.
Alastor attempted to step back.
To move.
To do anything.
But to his horror, his body refused to obey him.
Not because of magic.
Not because he was restrained, but because he was paralyzed with fear.
His eyes remained fixed upon the figure.
Unable to look away.
The skeleton slowly lifted its head from its hunched position.
Every movement felt agonizingly deliberate.
Eventually, its empty gaze settled upon him.
And in that moment...
Alastor finally understood true fear!
The absolute apathy within those hollow eye sockets was unnatural.
No.
That wasn't entirely correct.
It was beyond unnatural.
It was fundamental.
A force more akin to a law of existence than an emotion.
And then Alastor realized why this place felt so wrong.
Why every instinct in his body screamed at him that he did not belong here.
This was a domain of absolute entropy.
A place of perfect stillness.
Perfect emptiness.
A reality where everything eventually ended.
Light.
Darkness.
Hope.
Despair.
Love.
Hatred.
None of them existed here.
Because all things ultimately faded into the same cold nothingness.
Alastor screamed internally for his body to move.
Move!
His mind desperately reached for every power at his disposal.
Magic.
Psionics.
The Holy Light.
His own physical strength.
Anything.
Everything.
But he found nothing.
Only a vast emptiness.
As though he had never possessed those powers to begin with!?
Then something answered.
His sacred flames.
For the first time since arriving in this impossible place, something responded to his will.
Without hesitation, Alastor unleashed them.
The flames erupted from him with the force of a tidal wave.
Sacred fire flooded the darkness.
And in the very next instant—
He was back.
The chamber.
The ritual.
The others.
All of it returned at once.
The combined power of the Holy Light had finally engulfed Frostmourne completely.
The cursed blade let out one final agonized wail.
Then it shattered.
The runeblade exploded into countless fragments as its corrupt power was broken and dispersed.
Radiant light washed over the shattered remains, purifying much of the lingering corruption.
Relief immediately spread throughout the chamber.
The ritual had succeeded.
Frostmourne was destroyed.
But Tyrande was the first to notice something was wrong.
Alastor suddenly collapsed to his hands and knees.
Without hesitation, she rushed to his side.
"Alastor!"
She knelt beside him and helped steady his trembling body.
"Are you alright?"
Her voice immediately drew everyone's attention.
Confusion quickly turned into concern as the others gathered around.
Alastor looked terrible.
His body was shaking uncontrollably.
His face was pale.
He was sweating profusely.
His breathing came in ragged gasps.
And none of them understood why.
The ritual had certainly been demanding.
But only by the standards of ordinary priests and paladins.
Alastor, Uther, and Alonsus were Saints.
The strain should have been relatively minor for them.
In fact, both Uther and Alonsus appeared perfectly fine.
Yet Alastor looked as though he had just survived a battle against death itself.
But he barely heard their voices.
His mind remained trapped on what he had witnessed.
The throne.
The skeletal figure.
That gaze.
That impossible apathy.
'What...'
His thoughts trembled.
'What was that thing!?'
Never before had he experienced such overwhelming fear.
Not against daemons.
Not against Greater Daemons.
Not even against Deathwing.
Nothing came remotely close!
Tyrande frowned as she gently placed a hand against his cheek.
Silvery-white light, soft and radiant like moonlight, flowed from her fingertips.
Drawing upon her authority over dreams, she guided the energy into his mind.
Alastor immediately felt relief.
The sensation was soothing.
Gentle.
Warm.
Like a comforting embrace after a nightmare.
The dread slowly receded.
Then vanished entirely.
Only exhaustion remained.
After several moments, he finally steadied his breathing.
"...Thank you."
Tyrande offered him a small smile.
"No thanks are necessary."
She kept her tone calm and reassuring.
"You most likely participated in the ritual while already exhausted, stressed and ended up pouring far more power into it than intended."
Alastor's eyes flickered.
He glanced toward her.
Tyrande met his gaze.
And for a brief moment, a silent understanding passed between them.
She knew.
Not what he had seen.
But that whatever had happened was not normal.
More importantly, she understood that he did not wish to speak about it.
At least not now, If ever.
Aside from Alexstrasza, who also sensed there was more to the situation than Alastor was revealing, everyone else accepted Tyrande's explanation.
And honestly, it wasn't difficult to believe.
They had all witnessed firsthand how frequently their leader pushed himself beyond reasonable limits.
Often with little regard for his own well-being.
A habit that earned equal amounts of admiration, praise, and exasperated scolding.
"Now that the ritual has succeeded," Tyrande said as she helped Alastor stand, "I believe it would be best if we dispersed and allowed our leader some much-needed rest."
"Indeed."
Alexstrasza nodded in agreement.
"There are magical methods that can alleviate fatigue, but relying upon them too frequently often causes more problems in the long run."
She crossed her arms.
"And I would hardly recommend such habits."
Brontes meanwhile began collecting the shattered fragments of Frostmourne.
Although traces of corruption still lingered within them, the taint had been reduced to a manageable level.
Manageable enough for someone with the proper skills and tools to work with.
And Brontes already had a few ideas he intended to discuss with his brothers.
"You really need to take better care of yourself, lad."
Uther shook his head.
Alonsus chuckled softly.
"He's right, you know."
The Archbishop smiled.
"You are the heart of the Alliance, young man."
"Try not to carry the entire world upon your shoulders."
One by one, the group began to disperse.
Returning to their respective duties.
Their thoughts.
Their responsibilities.
Malfurion lingered for a moment longer.
The archdruid quietly watched Tyrande help Alastor toward his quarters.
A faint sadness entered his eyes.
Then he sighed.
'Times like these...'
His gaze drifted downward.
'I truly wish you were here, Illidan.'
Eventually, Malfurion turned and walked away.
Lost in thoughts of his estranged brother.
And wondering what might have been.
Had fate chosen a different path for them both.
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