The village of Hearthglen lay nestled among the rolling hills of northern Lordaeron. Known for its fertile lands and devoted followers of the Light, Hearthglen had long been a peaceful settlement.
Fields of wheat surrounded the town like a golden ocean, and a sturdy stone wall protected the clustered homes within.
But on this day, the golden fields stood silent beneath a grey sky. No farmers worked the land. No merchants traveled the road. Instead, the town prepared for war.
Dust rose from the road as Arthas Menethil and Jaina Proudmoore arrived at the gates of Hearthglen with a small group of soldiers.
The guards standing atop the walls looked exhausted but determined. Makeshift barricades had been erected along the gates, and villagers were carrying crates of arrows and barrels of oil to the battlements.
One armored commander approached as Arthas dismounted.
"Your Highness."
Arthas nodded sharply.
"What's happening here?"
The commander's expression was grim.
"Scouts returned an hour ago. An undead army is marching toward the village."
Jaina felt a chill run through her.
"How large?"
"Hundreds… perhaps more."
Arthas looked toward the northern hills where dark clouds gathered ominously.
"They're moving faster than I expected."
The commander lowered his voice.
"We were preparing to evacuate the villagers, but the roads are already crawling with undead."
Arthas straightened.
"Then we hold the town."
Inside the town square, villagers hurried to reinforce defenses. Knights from the Knights of the Silver Hand organized groups of volunteers, handing out weapons and shields.
Arthas turned to Jaina.
"We won't survive this alone."
Jaina nodded immediately.
"You want me to return to Dalaran?"
"No."
Arthas shook his head.
"Find Uther the Lightbringer."
Jaina's eyes widened slightly.
"You're planning to stay?"
Arthas looked around the village.
"If Hearthglen falls, the Scourge will sweep through half of northern Lordaeron before anyone can stop them."
His voice hardened.
"I'll hold them here."
Jaina hesitated.
"Arthas…"
He met her gaze firmly.
"Go."
After a long moment, she nodded.
"Be careful."
Arcane energy gathered around her hands. A brilliant flash of blue light erupted. And Jaina Proudmoore vanished.
As the defenders prepared for battle, Arthas walked through the town inspecting the defenses. That was when he noticed several crates stacked beside the granary. The markings looked familiar.
He turned to the commander.
"What's in those crates?"
The commander shrugged.
"Just grain shipments from Andorhal, Your Highness."
Arthas' expression darkened.
"And the grain?"
"Already distributed to the villagers this morning."
For a brief moment, the world seemed to stop.
Arthas' heart sank.
"No…"
Suddenly, a villager collapsed onto the ground. Another fell beside him. Several more dropped their tools and clutched their heads as if overcome by sudden exhaustion. Panic spread across the square.
"What's happening?!"
The fallen villagers began trembling violently. Their skin turned pale. Their eyes rolled back. Then—they stood again.
But something was terribly wrong. Their movements were stiff. Their eyes empty. The plague had taken hold.
Arthas whispered hoarsely.
"The grain…"
One of the transformed villagers lunged toward a guard. Arthas raised his hammer. Holy light erupted as he smashed the creature to the ground.
"Kill them!"
His voice carried anguish.
"Don't let them spread the infection!"
The knights quickly moved forward, destroying the newly risen undead. Yet the realization weighed heavily on Arthas. The plague did not simply kill. It turned its victims into soldiers of the Scourge.
Night fell. And with it… The army of the dead arrived.
From the hills surrounding Hearthglen, thousands of undead figures began emerging from the darkness. Ghouls. Skeleton warriors. Abominations stitched together from corpses. The Scourge had come.
Arthas climbed the wall and looked down at the approaching undead.
"Hold your ground!"
Torches ignited along the battlements. Archers prepared their arrows. Then the first wave struck. Undead slammed against the gates. Arrows rained from the walls.
Holy light flashed as paladins crushed skeletons with blessed weapons. Wave after wave attacked the town. Yet the defenders held.
During a brief lull in the battle, a scout rushed toward Arthas.
"My prince!"
"What is it?"
"A caravan carrying plagued grain is moving through the nearby villages."
Arthas' eyes flashed with anger.
"More cursed shipments?"
"Yes."
Without hesitation, Arthas gathered a small force of knights.
"We destroy it."
They rode into the night. After several miles, they found the caravan. Large wagons filled with cursed grain. Escorted by undead soldiers and grotesque Meat Wagons carrying barrels of plague.
Arthas raised his hammer.
"Charge!"
The knights crashed into the escort. Holy light shattered skeletons and zombies alike. The Meat Wagons were destroyed with burning oil and steel. Flames consumed the cursed grain. Only then did Arthas turn his men back toward Hearthglen.
But the siege had grown worse. As Arthas returned, the town walls were already partially breached.
Two powerful undead figures hovered above the battlefield. Liches. Masters of frost and death magic. They unleashed waves of necromantic energy that shattered barricades and froze defenders where they stood.
Thousands of undead poured through the gaps. The defenders began falling one by one. Arthas fought desperately in the streets.
But the tide of undead seemed endless. For the first time since the battle began… He realized they might lose.
Just as the final defenses collapsed, trumpets sounded from the southern road. Golden banners appeared over the hill. An army of paladins charged forward.
At their head rode Uther the Lightbringer. Beside him, Jaina Proudmoore.
"FOR THE LIGHT!" Uther roared.
The knights of the Knights of the Silver Hand slammed into the rear of the undead army. Caught between two forces, the Scourge began collapsing. Within minutes, the remaining undead were destroyed.
The siege was over. Smoke drifted through the ruined streets of Hearthglen. Uther approached Arthas slowly.
"You fought well, lad."
Arthas looked away.
"We nearly lost."
Uther's voice was stern.
"Pride will not save this kingdom."
"What happened here is only the beginning."
Arthas clenched his fists.
"I know who is behind it."
Uther frowned.
"Who?"
Arthas' voice burned with fury.
"Mal'Ganis."
"He's hiding in Stratholme."
Uther shook his head.
"You cannot face him alone."
Arthas turned sharply.
"I will go with or without your help."
The determination in his eyes was absolute. Jaina watched the two men silently. Because she could see something dangerous growing inside Arthas.
Something that would soon lead them all toward the tragedy waiting in Stratholme. And the fate of Lordaeron would soon hang in the balance.
The battle for Hearthglen had ended, but the scars of the siege remained everywhere. Broken barricades littered the streets. Burned homes smoldered faintly beneath the pale morning sun. Priests of the Light moved through the village tending to the wounded while soldiers gathered the fallen for burial.
The victory had saved the town, but no one felt triumphant. The undead army had nearly destroyed them. And everyone knew more battles were coming.
Standing atop the battered stone wall, Arthas Menethil gazed toward the distant horizon. The rolling fields beyond Hearthglen stretched endlessly northward, their golden wheat swaying beneath the cold wind.
Yet somewhere beyond those peaceful hills… The Scourge continued to spread.
He gripped the handle of his hammer tightly. Villages had already fallen. Thousands had died. And the enemy responsible—Mal'Ganis, remained hidden.
Arthas' mind burned with one thought.
I will find him.
And I will end this.
The prince turned and began walking down the stone steps of the wall, his thoughts still racing. That was when he noticed something unusual.
A lone figure stood quietly near the edge of the road leading out of the village. Wrapped in a long dark cloak. Watching him.
Arthas approached cautiously. The man did not move. His face remained hidden beneath the hood of his cloak.
Yet something about his presence felt… unnatural.
"You there," Arthas called.
The stranger lifted his head slowly. His voice carried a strange calmness.
"Prince Arthas Menethil."
Arthas frowned.
"You know who I am."
The hooded man stepped forward slightly.
"I know many things."
There was something unsettling about the way he spoke. Not threatening. But certain. As though he already knew how every event would unfold.
Arthas narrowed his eyes.
"Who are you?"
The stranger paused for a moment. Then replied simply.
"I am a prophet."
Arthas snorted quietly.
"I have little patience for riddles today."
The prophet did not seem offended. Instead, he gazed calmly toward the distant north.
"I have come to deliver a warning."
Arthas folded his arms.
"Then speak."
The prophet's voice grew quieter.
"The darkness that spreads across Lordaeron cannot be stopped."
Arthas' expression hardened instantly.
"What?"
The prophet continued as though stating an undeniable fact.
"The plague will consume this kingdom."
"The dead will rise in numbers beyond imagining."
"And the war that follows will destroy everything you seek to protect."
Arthas' temper flared.
"I just drove back an undead army from Hearthglen."
"And I will destroy the one responsible."
The prophet shook his head slowly.
"You cannot stop what has already begun."
Arthas stepped closer, anger rising.
"Then why are you here?"
The prophet looked directly at him now.
"To tell you the only path that may save your people."
Arthas' eyes narrowed.
"What path?"
The prophet's voice was steady.
"Leave this land."
"Gather those you trust and flee west."
Arthas stared at him as if he had gone mad.
"Flee?"
"Yes."
"Across the sea."
"To the lands of Kalimdor."
For a moment, the prince simply laughed.
"You expect me to abandon Lordaeron?"
The prophet did not answer. Instead, he simply watched him.
Arthas' voice grew colder.
"My people are dying."
"My kingdom is under attack."
"And you expect me to run?"
The prophet's expression remained unchanged.
"I expect nothing."
"But I know what must happen."
Arthas' patience finally snapped.
"I will not flee. I will defend my people."
For the first time, the prophet nodded. As if he had expected that answer all along.
"Then your choice is already made."
The wind stirred around them. And the prophet spoke one final warning.
"Just remember…"
"The harder you strive to slay your enemies…"
"The faster you'll deliver your people right into their hands."
Arthas opened his mouth to respond but the prophet had already begun to change. His body shimmered with strange magic. Feathers erupted from his cloak.
Within seconds—a black raven stood where the prophet had been. The bird spread its wings and soared into the sky. Vanishing into the clouds. The prophet had gone.
For a moment, Arthas simply stared upward. Then a soft voice spoke from behind him.
"Arthas…"
He turned. Jaina Proudmoore stepped out from behind a nearby stone wall. Her expression looked uneasy.
"I… heard everything."
Arthas frowned slightly.
"You were eavesdropping?"
Jaina looked embarrassed.
"I'm sorry."
She hesitated before continuing.
"But… I could sense incredible power within him."
Arthas said nothing. Jaina looked toward the sky where the raven had disappeared.
"Maybe he was right."
"Maybe he truly does know what's coming."
Arthas shook his head firmly.
"Nothing he can say will make me abandon my homeland, Jaina."
His voice was resolute.
"I don't care if that madman has seen the future."
He turned toward the road.
"Let's go."
Jaina followed him quietly. Yet her thoughts remained troubled. The prophet's warning echoed in her mind.
Leave this land.
Flee west.
She had sensed something powerful within that mysterious figure. Something ancient. Something far beyond ordinary magic. And this was not the first warning she had heard.
Her mind drifted back to another conversation weeks earlier. To the words of Leylin. The quiet urgency in his voice.
The strange certainty when he spoke about the disaster approaching Lordaeron. At the time, she had not fully understood what he meant. But now…
Two people had warned of the same coming darkness. The prophet. And Leylin. Jaina looked toward Arthas walking ahead of her.
His shoulders were tense. His determination is unshakable. Yet deep within her heart, a quiet fear began to grow. Because if both of those warnings were true…
Then the path Arthas had chosen might lead not to salvation but to tragedy. And somewhere far away, the agents of the Scourge continued their work beneath the command of Mal'Ganis.
The prince was marching toward Stratholme. And the fate of Lordaeron was drawing ever closer to its darkest hour.