The smoke from Stratholme still lingered faintly in the northern sky even days after the tragedy. The once-great city had become a scar upon the land of Lordaeron. Rumors spread quickly across the kingdom.
Some said the Scourge had destroyed the city. Others whispered something far more disturbing. That the prince himself had ordered its destruction.
But the truth was known only to a few. And among them was Jaina Proudmoore.
The violet towers of Dalaran rose proudly above the hills as Jaina approached the gates. Normally the sight of the city filled her with comfort. Dalaran had always been a place of knowledge and calm reasoning.
But today… Her heart felt heavy.
As she passed through the magical wards protecting the city, the familiar hum of arcane energy greeted her senses. Mages moved along the streets carrying scrolls and books, continuing their endless research as though the world beyond the walls remained unchanged.
Yet Jaina knew better. The plague spreading across Lordaeron was no ordinary disease.
It was a weapon. A weapon created by the servants of darkness.
And its mastermind—Kel'Thuzad, had once been a member of this very city.
Within the Council Chamber of the Kirin Tor, several senior magi had already gathered. Among them stood the elderly archmage Antonidas. His long beard rested against the golden trim of his robes as he listened to Jaina's report.
The chamber remained silent as she spoke. She described everything she had witnessed. The cursed grain from Andorhal.
The spreading plague. The undead armies. And finally… The terrible decision made in Stratholme.
Some of the mages looked shocked. Others appeared deeply troubled.
But Antonidas remained thoughtful.
"So the plague does not merely kill," the archmage said slowly.
"It resurrects its victims as undead servants."
Jaina nodded.
"Yes."
"And the one orchestrating it is Kel'Thuzad."
Several members of the Kirin Tor exchanged uneasy glances. Kel'Thuzad's expulsion from the order had been a dark chapter in their history. Now it seemed their former colleague had returned with a vengeance.
Antonidas folded his hands.
"And the prince?"
Jaina hesitated before answering.
"He… has gone after Mal'Ganis."
The archmage sighed softly.
"I feared as much."
One of the elder magi spoke with concern.
"If this plague spreads unchecked, the entire kingdom could fall."
Another mage added grimly.
"We must research a magical cure immediately."
But Jaina shook her head slowly.
"It may already be too late."
The chamber fell silent again. Because the truth was becoming clear. The plague was spreading faster than the scholars of Dalaran could study it.
Antonidas looked at Jaina carefully.
"You seem troubled."
Jaina hesitated.
There was something she had not mentioned yet. Something that had been lingering in her thoughts ever since leaving Stratholme.
"Archmage…"
She paused before continuing.
"There were warnings."
Antonidas raised an eyebrow.
"What kind of warnings?"
Jaina spoke slowly.
"Before all this happened… someone warned me that a disaster was coming."
She described her earlier conversations in Quel'Thalas. The long discussions about magic. The research into strange arcane disturbances.
And the quiet concern expressed by Leylin. Some of the mages looked curious. Others are skeptical.
Antonidas frowned slightly.
"You believe this mage predicted the plague?"
Jaina shook her head.
"Not exactly."
"But he sensed something was wrong… long before we did."
She then described the encounter with the mysterious prophet outside Hearthglen. A man who claimed the fall of Lordaeron could not be stopped. And who had urged them to flee west.
A quiet murmur spread through the chamber. One of the magi scoffed.
"Prophets and visions are hardly reliable sources."
But Jaina's voice remained firm.
"Perhaps."
"But two different individuals sensed the same coming disaster," she continued "And both of them warned us."
Antonidas remained silent for a long moment. Then he spoke carefully.
"Even if this Leylin possesses unusual insight, prophecy alone cannot guide the decisions of the Kirin Tor."
Jaina understood the reasoning. Dalaran valued knowledge that could be proven. But her instincts told her something important was being overlooked.
Later that evening, Jaina stood alone on one of the balconies overlooking the shining city of Dalaran. The arcane lights illuminating the streets below flickered gently in the night.
Yet her mind remained restless. Everything she had seen in recent weeks felt like pieces of a puzzle that no one fully understood.
The plague. The Scourge. Kel'Thuzad. The prophet's warning. And Leylin's earlier concerns.
Jaina closed her eyes briefly.
If he truly understood what was coming…
Then perhaps he might also know what to do next. She opened her eyes again. Her decision was made.
"I need answers."
And there was only one person she trusted to speak with honestly about the situation.
Before dawn the next morning, Jaina Proudmoore quietly left Dalaran. Her destination lay far to the north.
Beyond the forests of Lordaeron. Beyond the borders guarded by the ancient high elves. Toward the radiant kingdom of Quel'Thalas. Toward Windrunner Village. Towards Leylin.
Because if anyone could help her understand the growing darkness threatening the world… It might be him.
And deep within her heart, Jaina feared that the answers she would receive might reveal an even greater catastrophe waiting just beyond the horizon.
The fall of Lordaeron might only be the beginning.
The cold winds of northern Lordaeron swept across the military encampment outside the capital. Rows of tents stretched across the open fields like a sea of white canvas, illuminated by hundreds of torches burning against the growing night.
Soldiers sharpened their blades beside campfires. Blacksmiths hammered armor late into the evening. Messengers rode tirelessly between officers carrying sealed orders.
War preparations had begun. At the center of it all stood the young prince of Lordaeron. Arthas Menethil.
Arthas stood alone near the edge of the camp, staring toward the northern horizon. Beyond that distant line of hills lay the sea. And beyond that sea… The frozen continent of Northrend.
The place where Mal'Ganis had fled. The memory of Stratholme still haunted his thoughts. The flames. The screams. The betrayal he felt when Uther the Lightbringer and Jaina Proudmoore had abandoned him.
His jaw tightened.
"They never understood."
Arthas clenched his gauntleted fist. Everything he had done was necessary. The plague would have turned the citizens of Stratholme into undead monsters.
He had saved countless lives by destroying the city before that could happen. Yet instead of gratitude… He had received condemnation.
No. He would prove them wrong. And the only way to do that was to destroy the source of the plague itself.
The icy winds howled as Arthas and a small detachment of his remaining troops arrived at the shores of Daggercap Bay. Jagged cliffs surrounded the frozen coastline, their edges sharp like broken blades. The sea itself was partially frozen, waves crashing sluggishly against the icy shore.
Arthas scanned the horizon.
"There are tracks here," one of the soldiers said, kneeling in the snow. "Recent ones."
Arthas narrowed his eyes.
"Then we are close."
But before they could move further, a loud crack split the air. Gunfire. Bullets struck the ground near their feet, kicking up snow and ice.
"Ambush!" one soldier shouted.
Arthas raised his hammer, ready to strike.
"Hold your ground!"
From the cliffs above, a group of rugged figures emerged—armed with rifles and wearing heavy fur-lined armor. Dwarves.
A booming voice echoed from above.
"Stand down, ye fools! They're not Scourge!"
Moments later, a familiar figure stepped forward. Stocky. Bearded. And very much alive. Muradin Bronzebeard.
Arthas froze.
"…Muradin?"
The dwarf grinned broadly.
"By the mountains! I thought ye were dead, lad!"
The soldiers behind Arthas murmured in disbelief. Muradin climbed down the rocky slope, his boots crunching against the snow.
"At first, I thought ye were some undead trick…"
He looked Arthas up and down.
"But ye look worse than a corpse yourself."
Arthas said nothing for a moment. His gaze lingered on Muradin. Alive. Whole. As if the tragedy at the altar had never happened.
Muradin crossed his arms.
"So… I take it ye came here to rescue us?"
Arthas shook his head.
"No. I came to hunt Mal'Ganis."
Muradin raised a brow.
"…Then this really is a coincidence."
He let out a short laugh.
"Well, it seems fate's got a strange sense of humor."
Muradin explained along the way what happened to him, telling Arthas that they were looking for the runeblade Froustmorne but had been besieged by the undead.
Together, Arthas and Muradin led a joint assault against a nearby undead encampment. The battlefield was brutal.
Ghouls leapt from the shadows. Necromancers raised fresh corpses mid-battle. But Arthas cut through them like a storm given form.
Each swing of his hammer shattered bone and flesh alike. Muradin watched from the side as Arthas fought.
By the end of the battle, the undead camp was reduced to ruin. But there was still no sign of Mal'Ganis.
Arthas clenched his jaw.
"He's still out there."
Muradin placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We'll find him, lad."
But Arthas didn't respond. His gaze had already shifted toward the distant horizon.
Days later, as the cold grew harsher, a strange sight appeared in the skies above their camp. A zeppelin descended slowly through the gray clouds.
It bore the colors of Lordaeron. An emissary stepped down, carrying a sealed message.
He approached Captain Luc Valonforth, saluting sharply.
"Orders from King Terenas Menethil II and Uther the Lightbringer."
The message was delivered. The command was clear. Return home immediately. When Arthas was informed, silence fell across the camp.
Muradin spoke first.
"Lad… maybe this is for the best."
Arthas turned slowly.
"No."
His voice was cold.
"I will not leave."
Muradin frowned.
"Yer men are exhausted. This campaign—"
"It ends when Mal'Ganis is dead."
There was no hesitation in his tone. No doubt. Only obsession.
That night, Arthas stood alone at the edge of the camp. Snow fell quietly around him.
Behind him, his soldiers were preparing to depart, following the king's orders. They believed they were going home.
But Arthas had already made his decision. He would not allow it. Turning, he walked into the forest.
There, waiting in the shadows, were a group of indigenous mercenaries. Rough men. Survivors of the harsh northern wilderness.
"I require your assistance," Arthas said.
Moments later, flames rose into the night sky. The ships docked along the frozen shore burned fiercely. Wood cracked and splintered as fire consumed them.
By the time the soldiers arrived, it was too late. Their only means of returning home… was gone.
"What happened?!" one soldier shouted.
Arthas stepped forward calmly.
"These mercenaries betrayed us."
He pointed toward the hired men.
"They burned our ships."
The mercenaries froze.
"That's not what—"
They never finished. Arthas's soldiers, enraged and desperate, turned on them instantly. Steel met flesh. Cries echoed briefly… Then silence.
Muradin stood at the edge of the scene, horrified.
"Arthas… What have ye done?"
The prince turned toward his men. His expression was completely devoid of emotion.
"Our ships are destroyed. There is no retreat."
He raised his hammer, its glow cutting through the darkness.
"The only way home… Is victory."
The soldiers stood frozen. Some were in fear. Some in disbelief. Some… in reluctant resolve. Muradin stared at Arthas, his heart heavy.