Dawn rose slowly over Brill, but the sunlight did little to restore the town's peace. The streets still bore the scars of the battle from the night before. Charred wood. Broken carts. And dark stains on the dirt roads where the undead had fallen.
Villagers moved quietly through the streets, cleaning debris and helping the injured. Guards stood at every intersection, their expressions tense, eyes scanning the surrounding fields as if expecting the dead to rise again at any moment.
Near the chapel, several pyres had been built. The bodies of the fallen and the remains of the undead were being burned together. No one dared risk burying them again. The smell of smoke and ash drifted through the morning air.
Standing near the town square, Arthas Menethil watched the pyres silently. His jaw was clenched tightly. He had faced enemies before, bandits, raiders, even the remnants of the orcish Horde during the years following the war. But last night was different.
Those enemies had been alive. What he fought now… Were his own people. Villagers. Farmers. Men and women who had once lived ordinary lives. Now twisted into monsters.
Jaina approached him quietly. Jaina Proudmoore had spent most of the night assisting the wounded and examining several of the bodies before they were burned.
"What did you find?" Arthas asked.
Jaina exhaled slowly.
"The necromantic magic animating them wasn't natural."
Arthas frowned.
"You mean someone cast a spell on them?"
"Not exactly."
She gestured toward one of the grain wagons standing near the road.
"I believe the curse began before they even died."
Earlier that morning, Jaina had asked several villagers where they had purchased their food in recent weeks. The answer had been nearly identical every time.
Grain shipments. Large deliveries that had arrived shortly before the sickness began.
All of them had come from one place. Andorhal. Now the wagons carrying the remaining sacks stood in the center of town.
Arthas approached one of them. A guard cut open a sack with his dagger. Fine flour spilled onto the ground.
At first glance, it appeared normal. But Jaina knelt beside it and extended her hand.
Arcane energy gathered faintly around her fingers. The air shimmered. Then—her expression changed.
"There it is."
Arthas looked down.
"What?"
Jaina brushed aside some of the flour. Hidden within the grain were tiny flecks of dark powder. Almost invisible.
But the magical energy radiating from them was unmistakable. Necromantic.
"This is what infected them," Jaina said quietly.
Arthas felt anger rising in his chest.
"You're telling me someone poisoned the food meant for our people?"
Jaina nodded grimly.
"Yes."
"And the grain came from Andorhal."
Later that morning, Arthas and Jaina questioned a merchant who had delivered the shipment. The nervous man wrung his hands constantly as he spoke.
"I only transport the grain," he said quickly. "I swear! I don't know anything about curses!"
Arthas leaned closer.
"Where did you pick up the shipment?"
"From the granaries in Andorhal, Your Highness."
"Did anything unusual happen there?"
The merchant hesitated.
"Well… there were some strange people around recently."
Arthas narrowed his eyes.
"What kind of people?"
"Robes. Dark robes. They spoke quietly among themselves."
Jaina and Arthas exchanged a glance.
"Did you recognize them?" Jaina asked.
The merchant shook his head.
"No, but the guards there didn't seem to question them."
Arthas straightened slowly.
"Cultists," he muttered.
Back inside the chapel, Jaina spread several maps across the table. Red marks indicated villages where the plague had already appeared. Nearly all of them were along trade routes connected to Andorhal.
"This isn't random," she said.
Arthas studied the map.
"It's distribution."
Jaina nodded.
"Someone deliberately contaminated the grain supply."
Her finger traced the trade routes leading outward from the town.
"If the source is truly Andorhal, then the plague has likely already spread far beyond here."
Arthas felt his stomach tighten.
"How far?"
Jaina answered quietly.
"Possibly across half of northern Lordaeron."
Arthas slammed his fist onto the table.
"Then we stop it there."
Jaina looked up.
"Arthas—"
"If the source is Andorhal, then that's where we end this."
His eyes burned with determination.
"We ride immediately."
Jaina hesitated briefly. She could see the anger growing inside him. But she also knew time was critical.
"Very well."
She rolled up the map.
"But we must proceed carefully."
Arthas grabbed his hammer and turned toward the door.
"We'll be careful."
His voice hardened.
"But whoever did this…"
"…will answer for it."
Far away in Andorhal, deep beneath the granaries, a gathering of robed figures knelt within a dim underground chamber. At their center stood a tall, gaunt man. Kel'Thuzad.
A cultist hurried down the stone stairs.
"Master."
Kel'Thuzad turned slowly.
"What news?"
"The prince of Lordaeron has discovered the cursed grain."
A thin smile formed on the necromancer's face.
"Excellent."
The cultist hesitated.
"He is coming here."
Kel'Thuzad clasped his hands behind his back.
"I expected as much."
His eyes glowed faintly with cold amusement.
"The young prince believes he can stop the plague."
He chuckled softly.
"But he has already taken the first step down the path prepared for him."
Kel'Thuzad looked toward the northern horizon.
"Let him come."
Above them, the granaries of Andorhal stood quietly beneath the afternoon sun. Yet beneath those buildings…
The Cult of the Damned was preparing. And the confrontation between Arthas Menethil and Kel'Thuzad was about to begin.
Dark clouds drifted slowly above the northern fields of Andorhal, casting long shadows across the sprawling granaries that fed much of Lordaeron.
From a distance, the town looked ordinary. Merchants moved carts through the streets. Farmers unloaded sacks of grain beside towering storage silos. Guards patrolled the outer walls.
Life appeared normal. Yet beneath that fragile illusion, corruption had already taken root. And now, the ones seeking the truth had finally arrived.
The sound of armored horses thundered across the dirt road leading into Andorhal. At the front of the column rode Arthas Menethil, prince of Lordaeron. His armor gleamed faintly beneath the gray sky, though his expression remained grim.
Beside him rode Jaina Proudmoore, her blue Kirin Tor robes fluttering in the cold wind. Behind them followed several soldiers and members of the Knights of the Silver Hand.
The town guards approached cautiously as the riders entered the gates. One guard stepped forward and bowed slightly.
"Your Highness. What brings you to Andorhal?"
Arthas wasted no time.
"We are investigating the plague spreading through the northern lands."
The guard's face stiffened.
"Plague?"
Jaina stepped forward calmly.
"Grain shipments from this town were delivered to Brill shortly before the outbreak began."
A murmur spread among the nearby workers. Arthas studied their reactions carefully. Some looked confused. Others… Nervous.
"Take us to the granaries," Arthas ordered.
The massive storage buildings of Andorhal dominated the eastern side of the town. Towering wooden structures filled with thousands of sacks of grain. Farmers and workers moved between them constantly.
But as Arthas and Jaina approached, Jaina felt something immediately. A faint disturbance in the air. Arcane energy. Dark. Rotting.
She closed her eyes briefly, extending her senses. Then her expression changed.
"Arthas…"
"What is it?"
"The magic here…"
Her voice lowered.
"It's everywhere."
Arthas turned to his soldiers.
"Search the buildings."
Within minutes, several knights returned carrying open sacks of grain. Jaina examined them quickly. Once again, she found the same dark powder hidden among the wheat.
The same cursed residue. Her heart sank.
"This confirms it."
Arthas looked around the granaries.
"So this entire town is distributing poisoned grain?"
Before Jaina could respond—a slow clap echoed across the courtyard. From the shadows of a nearby warehouse, a tall figure stepped forward.
He wore dark robes embroidered with arcane runes. His face was pale and gaunt. Yet his eyes burned with unnatural intelligence. Kel'Thuzad.
Several robed figures emerged behind him, forming a loose circle around the courtyard.
Members of the Cult of the Damned.
Arthas' hand immediately tightened around his hammer.
"You."
Kel'Thuzad smiled calmly.
"Prince Arthas Menethil."
Jaina's eyes widened in recognition.
"You were a member of the Kirin Tor."
Kel'Thuzad bowed mockingly.
"Formerly."
Arthas stepped forward.
"You're responsible for this plague."
Kel'Thuzad spread his arms slowly.
"Responsible?"
He chuckled.
"No, prince," he continued, "I am merely… a servant."
Kel'Thuzad gestured toward the robed followers surrounding them.
"These men and women understand what the world is becoming."
His voice carried eerie confidence.
"They have embraced a greater truth."
Arthas' patience snapped.
"You've murdered thousands!"
Kel'Thuzad's expression did not change.
"Not murdered, liberated."
He pointed toward the granaries.
"The plague you see is merely the beginning."
Jaina stepped forward, anger rising in her voice.
"Beginning of what?"
Kel'Thuzad's smile widened.
"The coming of the Cult of the Damned."
The cultists behind him lowered their heads in reverence. Arthas glared at them.
"A cult of murderers."
Kel'Thuzad shook his head.
"A cult of believers."
His voice darkened.
"The true mastermind behind this plague is the dreadlord, Malganis, who is waiting in Stratholme."
Jaina felt a chill run down her spine.
"Dreadlord?"
Kel'Thuzad nodded calmly.
"Yes. We will reshape this world. And the dead shall inherit it."
Arthas could no longer listen.
"Your madness ends here."
Holy light erupted from his hammer as he charged forward.
"FOR LORDAERON!"
Kel'Thuzad did not move. Instead, he laughed softly.
"So eager…"
Dark magic erupted from the ground around the courtyard. Corpses buried beneath the town began clawing their way upward. Dozens of undead rose from the soil. Ghouls. Skeletons. Rotting monstrosities stitched together from corpses.
The courtyard erupted into chaos. Knights rushed forward to defend themselves. Jaina unleashed a torrent of frost magic, freezing several undead in place.
Arthas swung his hammer through the horde, holy energy blasting the creatures apart. But Kel'Thuzad merely stepped backward toward the shadows.
"You cannot stop what has already begun, prince."
Arthas fought his way forward.
"Die!"
Kel'Thuzad raised one hand. But he was then struck down by one of Jaina's spells.
"The plague will consume this kingdom. And when it does…" His eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "You will understand."
With that, Arthas and Jaina continued their battle against Kel'Thuzad. The undead eventually fell beneath the combined strength of Arthas' knights and Jaina's magic. And the death of Kel'Thuzad.
"Naive... fool. My death will make little difference in the long run... for now... the scourging of this land... begins." These were Kel'Thuzad's last words before dying.
Arthas stood in the ruined courtyard breathing heavily. His anger burned like fire. Jaina approached cautiously.
"We've confirmed the source of the plague."
Arthas' voice was cold.
"And we know who started it."
He looked toward the horizon.
"Malganis."
His grip tightened on his hammer.
"I swear… I will hunt him down."
Jaina watched him quietly. Because she could see something in Arthas' eyes. A growing fury. A determination that bordered dangerously close to obsession.
And far away, hidden within the shadows of another town, Malganis was already preparing the next phase of the Lich King's plan. The fall of Lordaeron had begun. And the tragedy of Arthas Menethil was slowly unfolding.