The northern lands of Lordaeron had always been known for their fertile soil. Rolling green fields stretched endlessly across the countryside, broken only by quiet villages, windmills, and farms that had fed the kingdom for generations.
Wheat swayed gently beneath the cold northern winds, and the rivers that flowed from the mountains nourished the land with life.
To travelers passing through the region, everything seemed peaceful. Normal. Yet beneath that calm surface, something had begun to rot. Quietly. Slowly. Unseen.
In a small village several days north of Andorhal, an old farmer named Harlon knelt in the middle of his wheat field. His hands trembled as he rubbed a stalk of grain between his fingers.
Something was wrong.
The wheat looked healthy from a distance, but when he crushed the kernels in his palm, a faint black dust drifted into the air. Harlon frowned.
"That's strange…"
He had farmed this land for over thirty years. Never once had he seen wheat behave like this. He broke open another stalk. More dark powder spilled out. It smelled faintly… sour. Unnatural.
His son approached from behind, carrying a wooden bucket.
"Father?"
Harlon showed him the grain.
"Take this to the mill in Andorhal."
The boy blinked.
"But harvest isn't for another week."
Harlon stared across the field.
"I know."
He crushed another stalk slowly.
"But something is wrong with the crops."
Within a few days, shipments of grain began arriving at the granaries of Andorhal, one of the largest distribution centers in northern Lordaeron. Wagons rolled through the gates daily. Farmers unloaded sacks of wheat. Merchants checked inventories.
Mill workers processed the grain into flour that would be distributed throughout the kingdom. It was a routine process repeated every harvest season. No one questioned it.
One particular wagon, however, had come from the far northern farms. Inside its sacks lay wheat dusted with a faint black residue.
A mill worker dumped the grain into the grinder. The great stone wheels began to turn. Grinding. Crushing. Spread the corrupted dust into the flour. None of the workers noticed. To them, it was just another shipment.
By evening, the flour had already been packed and sent to nearby villages And some had already begun traveling further south. Toward the heart of the kingdom.
Several days later, in a quiet farming settlement not far from Andorhal, a woman collapsed inside her home. Her husband rushed to her side.
"Lena?"
She was burning with fever. Her breathing was shallow. Her skin is pale. At first, they assumed it was a simple illness. Perhaps spoiled food. Perhaps the cold winds of the north.
But by the next morning, three more villagers had fallen sick. Then five. Then ten. The local priest attempted to heal them with prayers to the Light. But something was wrong. The illness did not respond to ordinary healing.
Instead, the victims grew weaker. Their skin slowly turned gray. Their eyes hollow. And their breathing grew slower. Colder. Until eventually… They stopped breathing entirely.
Normally, death brought quiet mourning. Funerals. Burial rites. Peace. But this time… Death did not remain quiet.
Late that night, as villagers gathered inside the small chapel to pray for the dead, scratching sounds began echoing from the burial ground outside.
At first, they thought it was animals. Wolves. Or grave robbers. But the scratching continued. Slow. Relentless.
A young boy stepped outside with a lantern. The wind blew softly across the cemetery. Everything seemed still. Until the soil on one of the fresh graves shifted.
The boy froze. The earth cracked open. And a gray hand slowly pushed its way out of the ground.
By morning, the village was silent. Doors hung open. Homes were abandoned. Blood stained the dirt roads. And several figures wandered aimlessly through the streets.
Their movements are stiff. Their eyes are lifeless. Yet their bodies still moved. Still walked. Still searching. For the living. The plague had claimed its first settlement. And it was spreading.
Far away, within the icy continent of Northrend, something stirred deep beneath the frozen wastes. Within the dark throne of ice, the ancient spirit bound to the armor known as the Lich King observed the world through countless unseen eyes.
Through the dead. Through the plague. Through whispers carried by the wind. His power was growing. Every victim of the plague became another servant. Every fallen body became another soldier.
The Scourge was awakening. And its first foothold within Lordaeron had already been secured. Soon, entire towns would fall. Then cities. Then kingdoms.
Back in Dalaran, Leylin stood alone on the balcony of his residence. The night air was cold. Arcane lights floated across the city skyline. But his expression remained calm.
He felt something was totally wrong, he couldn't distinguish what it was but he could feel it. And he guessed the worst was about to happen. A disturbance. Cold. Corrupted. Rotting. The first traces of necromantic energy spread through the lands of Lordaeron. He tried sensing fluctuations in the direction of Lordaeron.
Leylin closed his eyes briefly.
"So it begins…"
The Plague of Undeath had finally appeared. And just as he had expected…No one in Dalaran had noticed yet.
The town of Andorhal had always been one of the most important supply hubs in northern Lordaeron. Situated near fertile farmland and connected by several trade routes, it served as a vast granary for the kingdom.
Caravans passed through its gates daily, carrying sacks of wheat, barley, and corn that would feed countless villages and cities across the northern territories.
To the ordinary citizen, the town looked as lively as ever.
Merchants shouted prices in the marketplace. Farmers unloaded their wagons near the mills. Workers labored endlessly beside the great granaries, hauling sacks of freshly milled flour onto waiting carts.
No one noticed the subtle change creeping into their midst. A change that wore the face of a respected scholar.
A hooded man walked slowly along the cobbled streets of Andorhal. His robes were dark but elegant, embroidered faintly with arcane symbols that only trained mages would recognize. Beneath his hood, sharp eyes observed everything around him, the merchants, the farmers, the guards patrolling the streets.
This man was none other than Kel'Thuzad. Once a prominent member of the Kirin Tor, he had been exiled from Dalaran for his dangerous research into necromancy. But exile had not broken him.
Instead, it had freed him. Freed him from the arrogance and blindness of the Kirin Tor. Freed him to serve a far greater master.
The whispers of the Lich King still echoed within his mind like a distant but irresistible call. A call that had led him here. To sow the seeds of death.
Kel'Thuzad paused beside a wagon filled with sacks of grain. A farmer spoke with a merchant nearby.
"Best harvest we've had in years," the farmer said proudly.
Kel'Thuzad smiled faintly beneath his hood.
"Yes…"
"Indeed it is."
Later that night, deep beneath an abandoned warehouse near the outskirts of town, several figures gathered in a hidden cellar. Candles flickered against the stone walls. Strange runes had been carved into the floor.
And kneeling before the dark-robed mage were nearly a dozen followers. Men and women. Farmers. Merchants. Even a few disgraced soldiers.
All of them wore simple robes marked with a symbol resembling a skull surrounded by frost. The mark of the Cult of the Damned.
Kel'Thuzad stepped forward slowly.
"My faithful servants," he said calmly.
His voice carried an eerie serenity that immediately silenced the room.
"The time of waiting has ended."
The cultists raised their heads eagerly. For weeks they had been preparing for this moment. Gathering supplies. Infiltrating grain shipments. Spreading whispers of the coming transformation.
Kel'Thuzad lifted one of the sacks lying beside him.
"This grain," he said softly, "will feed thousands."
He sliced the sack open with a small dagger. Dark powder spilled onto the floor. It looked like ash. But its energy was far darker. Necromantic.
A young cultist swallowed nervously.
"Master… will it truly work?"
Kel'Thuzad's smile widened.
"It already has."
For weeks, the Cult of the Damned had secretly tampered with shipments of grain moving through Andorhal. They worked at night. Opening sacks. Sprinkling small amounts of corrupted dust inside.
Then sealing them again before dawn. To the naked eye, nothing appeared unusual. But the dust carried a terrible curse.
Anyone who consumed the bread made from that grain would slowly fall ill. Their bodies would weaken. Their hearts would stop. And then… They would rise again.
Kel'Thuzad placed his hand over the cursed powder. His fingers glowed faintly with dark magic.
"This plague is only the beginning," he whispered.
"The Lich King's will shall spread across this world."
He looked at his followers.
"Tomorrow morning, these shipments will be delivered to villages across northern Lordaeron."
His voice turned colder.
"And soon…"
"The dead will walk among the living."
At dawn, wagons rolled out of Andorhal. Farmers guided their horses along the muddy roads. Sacks of flour and grain filled the carts. None of them knew the truth.
That the food they carried would soon turn entire villages into graveyards. Kel'Thuzad stood atop the granary tower, watching the wagons disappear into the distance. One of his cultists approached cautiously.
"Master… what if the Kirin Tor discovers this?"
Kel'Thuzad chuckled softly.
"They will not."
His eyes turned northward.
"The fools of Dalaran still believe magic must follow rules."
"They cannot imagine a power that defies life itself."
He paused briefly. Then added quietly:
"And even if they did…"
"It would already be too late."
Far away, inside Dalaran, Leylin sat cross-legged in meditation. Arcane symbols floated slowly around him like drifting stars. Leylin slowly stood.
"What are you gonna do now…"
He walked toward the window overlooking the magical city.
Somewhere in the north… A new power was rising. And the architect behind it was a name the Kirin Tor had once dismissed as a dangerous but insignificant exile. Kel'Thuzad.
Leylin's expression grew thoughtful.
"They have probably begun moving already."
Outside, the magical lights of Dalaran shimmered peacefully. The city of mages slept quietly. Unaware that death was spreading across the kingdom they had sworn to protect. And in the shadows of Andorhal, the seeds of the Scourge had already been planted.