Grey clouds loomed over the grand city of Stratholme, the largest and wealthiest city in northern Lordaeron. Its towering white walls stretched high above the countryside, banners bearing the golden lion of Lordaeron fluttering in the wind.
From a distance, the city appeared magnificent. Bustling markets. Grand cathedrals. Narrow streets filled with merchants and travelers.
Yet beneath the surface, something terrible had already begun. The cursed grain from Andorhal had arrived days earlier. And the plague was already spreading.
Inside the city, thousands of citizens unknowingly carried the infection. Some would fall within hours. Others within days. But every one of them would eventually die. And rise again.
The sound of galloping horses echoed along the road as Arthas Menethil rode toward the gates of Stratholme, followed by Jaina Proudmoore, Uther the Lightbringer, and a contingent of knights from the Knights of the Silver Hand.
Smoke rose from several districts inside the city. The streets beyond the gates looked unusually crowded. Refugees from surrounding villages had already begun arriving, unaware they carried the plague within them.
Arthas slowed his horse as he studied the scene. Then something caught his attention.
A merchant wagon unloading sacks of grain. The markings were unmistakable. The same symbol is used by shipments from Andorhal.
Arthas felt his stomach twist.
"We're too late…"
Jaina looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
Arthas pointed toward the wagon.
"The grain."
Jaina's eyes widened.
"The plague…"
Arthas nodded grimly.
"It's already inside the city."
For a long moment, none of them spoke. The city of Stratholme held tens of thousands of people. If the plague had already spread…
Then the consequences were unimaginable. Arthas clenched his fists.
"They'll begin turning soon."
Uther frowned.
"Then we must quarantine the city immediately."
Jaina nodded.
"We could organize evacuations for those who haven't eaten the grain."
But Arthas shook his head slowly.
"You don't understand."
He turned toward the crowded streets.
"There's no way to know who has eaten it."
The terrible truth hung heavily in the air. Anyone inside the city might already be infected. Even if they appeared healthy.
Arthas' voice became cold.
"They're all doomed."
Arthas dismounted and walked toward the city gates. Uther followed him.
"What are you doing?"
Arthas stopped and turned back toward the two of them. His face was pale. But his eyes were burning with terrible resolve.
"This entire city must be purged."
Silence fell instantly. Jaina stared at him.
"You… can't mean that."
Arthas' voice did not waver.
"I must."
Uther's expression hardened.
"Lad, think about what you're saying."
Arthas pointed toward the city.
"If we allow them to live, they will all become undead."
"They will join the Scourge army."
"And they will slaughter thousands more."
Jaina stepped forward.
"There must be another way!"
Arthas looked at her sadly.
"There isn't."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"The plague has already taken them."
Uther crossed his arms firmly.
"How can you consider that, there's got to be some other way."
Arthas' eyes flashed with anger.
"Damn it, Uther! As your future king, I order you to purge this city!"
The words echoed across the road. For a long moment, Uther simply stared at him. Then he shook his head.
"You are not my king yet, boy. Nor would I obey that command even if you were."
Arthas' anger finally exploded.
"Then I must consider this an act of treason."
The knights standing nearby gasped.
"Treason? Have you lost your mind, Arthas?"
"Have I? Lord Uther, by my right of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command and suspend your paladins from service."
Jaina stepped forward quickly.
"Arthas! You can't just—"
But Arthas' voice was iron.
"It's done! Those of you who have the will to save this land, follow me! The rest of you… get out of my sight!."
Uther looked at him with deep disappointment.
"You've just crossed a terrible threshold, Arthas."
He turned to the knights behind him.
"Come. We will not take part in this madness."
Many of the Knights of the Silver Hand followed Uther as he rode away from the city. Only a handful remained behind with Arthas.
Jaina stood frozen. Torn between them. Arthas looked at her.
"Jaina?"
Jaina's eyes filled with sorrow.
"I'm sorry, Arthas. I can't watch you do this."
For a moment, the prince looked almost hurt. But the expression quickly hardened again.
"Then go."
Jaina lowered her head.
"I'm sorry."
She turned away and walked toward the road where Uther had departed. Arthas watched her leave. And suddenly felt very alone.
The gates of Stratholme opened. Arthas and his remaining soldiers marched inside. The streets were filled with ordinary citizens. Shopkeepers. Families. Children.
None of them realized the horror already growing within their bodies. Arthas' heart felt heavy. But his mind remained firm.
"If we don't act now… they will become monsters."
He raised his hammer.
"Father, forgive me for what I must do."
The soldiers hesitated. But the prince's command was absolute. The culling had begun. As the grim task continued, a familiar voice echoed from the shadows of the burning city.
"I've been waiting for you, young prince. I am Mal'Ganis."
A tall demonic figure stepped out from the smoke. Mal'Ganis. His wings spread wide as he watched the slaughter with cruel amusement.
"As you can see, your people are now mine. I will now turn this city household by household, until the flame of life has been snuffed out… forever."
Arthas' eyes burned with fury.
"I won't allow it, Mal'Ganis! Better that these people die by my hand than serve as your slaves in death!"
Arthas' and his soldiers continued their killings. And after that everyone was done, Arthas finally faced Mal'ganis.
Arthas raised his hammer.
"We're going to finish this right now, Mal'Ganis. Just you and me."
But Mal'Ganis merely laughed.
"Brave words. Unfortunately for you, it won't end here. Your journey has just begun, young prince."
He began to fade into the shadows.
"Gather your forces and meet me in the arctic land of Northrend. It is there that we shall settle the score between us. It is there that your true destiny will unfold. "
His voice echoed across the burning city. Then he vanished. Leaving Arthas alone among the flames of Stratholme.
"I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth if I have to! Do you hear me? To the ends of the earth!"
The prince shouted and stood silently for a long time. The city burned around him. And somewhere deep within his heart… Something had begun to break.
The road away from Stratholme felt far longer than when they had first arrived. Behind them, smoke climbed slowly into the grey sky, dark pillars twisting like silent accusations over the northern lands of Lordaeron.
The city burned. And with it, thousands of innocent lives. Walking along the road, Jaina Proudmoore surveyed the wreckage of Stratholme, as the surviving villagers piled the corpses of the dead onto pyres. She remained silent. Her thoughts were in turmoil.
"So much death… I can't believe Arthas could've done this."
The sounds of battle and screams from the city still echoed faintly in her memory. She had left before the slaughter began, but she knew what would follow. She knew Arthas Menethil would not hesitate. Not anymore.
The knights of the Knights of the Silver Hand marched quietly behind Uther. None of them spoke. Every soldier understood what had just happened.
A prince had ordered the death of his own people. Even if the plague would have claimed them eventually, the act itself had shattered something sacred.
Uther finally slowed his horse and turned slightly toward Jaina.
"Jaina! Jaina Proudmoore!"
Jaina looked towards the sound.
"Lord Uther?"
Her voice sounded hollow.
"Ah, Jaina. I thought I might find you here. Where has he gone, girl? Where has Arthas taken the fleet?"
"He came to me before he left. I pleaded with him not to go. I told him it sounded like a trap!"
Uther's expression hardened.
"Where?"
"Northrend. He's gone to Northrend to hunt Mal'Ganis."
"Damn that boy! I've got to inform King Terenas. Don't be too hard on yourself, girl. You had nothing to do with this… slaughter."
But Jaina did not answer. Her mind continued replaying Arthas' face when she had walked away. The anger. The desperation. The terrible determination. Something had changed inside him. Something that frightened her.
As the road stretched ahead, Jaina found herself remembering the encounter outside Hearthglen. The mysterious prophet. His voice had carried a strange certainty.
"The harder you strive to slay your enemies… the faster you'll deliver your people right into their hands."
At the time, Arthas had dismissed the warning. But now… Jaina's heart tightened. Because everything seemed to be unfolding exactly as the prophet had described.
Arthas' efforts to stop the Scourge had only driven him toward darker choices. And then another memory surfaced. A conversation weeks earlier.
The prophet flies towards Jaina and turns into his human form.
"The dead in this land might lie still for the time being, but don't be fooled. Your young prince will find only death in the cold north."
"You! Arthas is only doing what he believes is right!" Jaina answered back.
"Commendable as that may be, his passions will be his undoing. It falls to you now, young sorceress. You must lead your people west to the ancient lands of Kalimdor. Only there can you combat the shadow and save this world from the flame."
The prophet then morphed back into his raven form and flew somewhere.
It was then another memory surfaced. A conversation a few weeks earlier. Far away in Quel'Thalas.
She remembered standing inside the quiet study at Windrunner Village. The scent of old books filled the room as Leylin explained his concerns about the mysterious plague spreading through Lordaeron.
At the time, she had believed it to be simple caution. A scholar's speculation. But his voice had carried an unusual gravity.
"Something terrible is coming. A disaster that may shake every kingdom."
Back then she had not fully understood. But now… Stratholme burned behind her. And the plague was spreading faster than anyone could contain.
Jaina felt a growing unease settle in her chest. Two different individuals. Two powerful minds. Both had sensed the coming catastrophe long before it arrived. The prophet. And Leylin.
The road ahead blurred slightly as Jaina stared toward the distant horizon.
Could they really have foreseen all this?
If Leylin had known… Then what else might he have predicted? And why had no one listened?
Jaina suddenly felt the world growing far more uncertain than she had ever imagined. The teachings of the Kirin Tor had always emphasized logic, study, and the careful gathering of knowledge.
But this disaster had unfolded faster than any council debate. Faster than any research. If Leylin had truly understood the danger… Then perhaps his path of pursuing knowledge outside traditional methods had not been foolish at all.
Perhaps it had been necessary. While Jaina rode away from the burning city…
Far to the north in the tranquil forests of Quel'Thalas, another mind was already sensing the shift in fate. Within a quiet chamber at Windrunner Village, Leylin stood before a large arcane diagram drawn across the floor.
Glowing runes floated slowly around him. Lines of energy connected several magical instruments scattered across the room. These devices were designed to monitor fluctuations in magical currents across the Eastern Kingdoms.
Normally the readings remained stable. But tonight… The entire formation pulsed violently.
Leylin's eyes narrowed.
"So it has begun."
The sudden surge of chaotic magical energy spreading through the northern lands could only mean one thing. A massive concentration of death magic had just been unleashed.
He closed his eyes briefly. Tracing the disturbance across the arcane network. The epicenter quickly became clear. Stratholme.
Leylin exhaled slowly.
"So Arthas has finally reached the city."
His expression grew serious.
"And chose the path I feared."
Behind him, Aminel and Tyr'ganal watched the formation flicker with concern. Aminel spoke first.
"What happened?"
Leylin opened his eyes.
"The city has fallen."
Tyr'ganal frowned.
"You mean the Scourge destroyed it?"
Leylin shook his head slightly.
"No."
His voice was quiet.
"The prince did."
Both elves froze.
Aminel whispered softly.
"The humans would never—"
Leylin interrupted gently.
"The plague forced his hand."
Silence filled the room. After a moment, Tyr'ganal spoke.
"So your prediction was correct."
Leylin did not appear pleased. Instead, he stared at the glowing arcane diagram with distant eyes.
"Prediction?"
He shook his head slowly.
"No."
"It was simply the most probable outcome."
But even as he spoke, his expression grew heavier. Because probabilities did not make the outcome any easier to witness.
Leylin stepped toward the window overlooking the quiet forests of Quel'Thalas. The moon hung silently above the trees.
For now, the high elven kingdom remained untouched by the chaos sweeping through Lordaeron. But Leylin knew that peace would not last. The Scourge would continue growing. And eventually… Their path would lead north. Towards the Sunwell.
His eyes darkened slightly.
"So the gears of fate are turning."
Behind him, the arcane instruments continued pulsing with unstable energy. The fall of Stratholme had sent ripples through the magical currents of the entire continent. And those ripples would soon reach every kingdom.
Far to the south, Jaina continued riding along the lonely road. Her thoughts were no longer focused solely on Arthas. Now they circled around another question.
If Leylin truly understood what was coming…
Then perhaps she needed to see him again. Because the future of Lordaeron was growing darker by the day.
And somewhere ahead, Arthas Menethil was already preparing to chase Mal'Ganis to Northrend. A decision that would soon change the fate of the world.