The Sons of Lothar did not sleep so much as they collapsed.
It was a restless, fitful kind of rest, the sort that comes when the mind is too loud for the body to fully surrender. In the clearing after the portal closed, Turalyon and Khadgar had delivered the news in brutal, factual bursts. Lordaeron. Arthas. The plague.
The words had rippled through the ranks of battle-hardened soldiers like a slow-acting poison. By the time the full weight of it settled, the damage to their spirits was already visible.
They had spent years in a hellish wasteland fighting to preserve a home that, as it turned out, had spent those same years tearing itself apart.
They took to the field on the northern edge of Windrunner Village. The grass was long and overgrown, a lush contrast to the red dust of Draenor, yet many of them lay staring at the sky as if expecting it to crack.
Small groups sat huddled together, speaking in the low, gravelly tones of men who were afraid that if they raised their voices, the reality of their return would shatter.
Kurdran Wildhammer was the most restless of them all. He spent the night perched on a fence post, his silhouette sharp against the rising moon.
He looked north—always north, with a look of stubborn, simmering grief. His gryphon, Sky'ree, lay in the grass at his feet, her golden eyes reflecting the village fires, her breathing a steady, rhythmic thrum that seemed to be the only thing keeping the Dwarf anchored to the earth.
By morning, the shock had solidified into a grim, cold necessity. They would begin the journey toward the ruins of their lives soon enough, but first, they needed the full story.
The meeting took place in the manor's inner council room. Khadgar arrived first, as was his habit, claiming a seat and spreading a few scrolls across the dark wood of the table. He looked like a man trying to organize a library while the building was on fire—precise, scholarly, and deeply troubled.
Turalyon followed, his expression a mask of knightly discipline. He was followed by Kurdran, who stomped into the room and sat with a heavy thud, his broad hands folded like stone blocks on the table.
Then came Alleria and Sylvanas. The two sisters moved with a silent, synchronized grace, a private language of proximity that spoke of a long night spent bridge-building.
Aminel and Tyr'ganal arrived together, taking their seats across from Khadgar. There was a quiet, weary dignity in their movements; they were the historians of a tragedy they were still living through.
Leylin entered last. He didn't take the head of the table, but rather a seat that allowed him to see everyone clearly. He looked at the gathered heroes of the Second War—men and women who were legends in their own time—and saw only the fraying edges of their endurance.
"I could give you a summary," Leylin began, his voice cutting through the tension. "I could give you the casualty counts and the maps of the dead zones. But that won't help you understand why. To understand why the world broke, you have to understand the man who broke it."
He looked at Aminel. "Tell them about the Prince. Tell them about the beginning."
Aminel took a breath, her hands steady on the table. "It didn't start with an army," she said softly. "It started with grain."
She told the story with a clinical, haunting clarity. She spoke of the shipments from Andorhal, the slow-acting plague that didn't kill so much as rewrite the DNA of the living. She spoke of Arthas Menethil—not as the monster he was now, but as the Crown Prince who had gone to investigate.
"You have to remember the Arthas we knew," Aminel said, her gaze drifting to Turalyon. "He was earnest. He was proud. He believed, with every fiber of his being, that it was his divine right and his holy duty to protect Lordaeron. He didn't walk toward villainy; he walked toward a series of impossible choices, and he chose the path of fire every single time."
Tyr'ganal picked up the thread, describing the escalation. The rising of the dead. The horror of seeing your neighbors and kin turn into mindless, rotting husks. He spoke of the rift between Arthas and his mentors, the way Uther's rigid morality and Jaina's hope began to feel like shackles to a Prince who saw his kingdom slipping through his fingers.
"Then came Stratholme," Aminel said.
The name hung in the air like a pall. Even those who had been in Draenor knew Stratholme; it was the jewel of the north, a city of commerce and light.
"Arthas arrived to find the grain already distributed," Aminel continued. "He decided the city was already dead. He didn't see people anymore; he saw future soldiers for an undead army. He gave the order to purge the city. Every man, woman, and child. Uther refused. Jaina wept and fled. And Arthas... Arthas drew his hammer and did it himself."
Kurdran let out a low, guttural curse. Turalyon's jaw tightened so hard the bone seemed ready to snap.
"He did what he thought was necessary," Tyr'ganal added quietly. "And in doing so, he burned away the last of his humanity. By the time he reached Northrend, he wasn't hunting a monster anymore. He was hunting a mirror."
Aminel described the final descent: the burning of the ships to prevent his men from retreating, the betrayal of his mercenaries, and the discovery of Frostmourne in the frozen wastes.
"A cursed blade," Khadgar murmured, his eyes fixed on Leylin. "A soul-eater."
"A vessel," Leylin corrected. "The sword was the hook. Arthas was the prize. It didn't just take his soul; it hollowed him out and filled the void with the Lich King's will. He returned to Lordaeron not as a conquering hero, but as a cold, smiling hollow."
The room was silent as Aminel reached the climax of the tale, the return to the capital. The rose petals falling from the balconies. The Prince kneeling before his father, King Terenas, only to rise and drive a runeblade through the old man's heart.
"He killed his father," Turalyon whispered. It wasn't a question, but a mourning. To a Paladin, the betrayal of a father and a king was the ultimate sacrilege.
"He didn't just kill him," Aminel said. "He destroyed the idea of Lordaeron. He used the King's own crown as a trophy while he led the Scourge through the streets of the city he was born to lead."
Tyr'ganal finished the account, detailing the march on Silvermoon, the destruction of the Sunwell, and the systematic erasing of elven history. He spoke of the Lich King's architecture—the floating citadels of bone and the endless, tireless march of the dead.
When the story finally ended, the silence in the room felt physical, like a thick, suffocating fog.
Kurdran was the first to find his voice. "He was a Paladin," he growled, his voice thick with a mix of fury and disbelief. "He was one of yours, Turalyon. Light-blessed. Consecrated."
"He was," Turalyon said, his voice sounding thin. "And the Light did not save him. Or perhaps, he simply turned his back on the Light so completely it couldn't find him anymore."
Khadgar leaned back, rubbing his temples. He looked at Leylin with a piercing, analytical gaze. "You knew the shape of this, didn't you? Even back then, when you were sending us messages through the void... you knew the Prince was gone."
"I knew the trajectory," Leylin said. "I saw the signs of the plague, and I understood the nature of the entity in Northrend. I did what I could to prepare this manor and the village, to save who I could. But Arthas... Arthas was a storm. You don't stop a storm; you survive it."
Khadgar nodded slowly, his mind clearly cataloging the new reality. "And the entity? The one behind the sword?"
"The Lich King," Leylin said. "Arthas is his hand, his weapon. But the will is older. It is an infection of the spirit, a hunger that won't stop until the world is a graveyard. That is the enemy we face. Not just a fallen prince, but the very concept of death made manifest."
The room absorbed that with the heavy stillness of soldiers realizing the war they just finished was merely a skirmish for the one that was coming.
"So," Turalyon said, standing up. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if he were feeling the weight of his years for the first time. "We move south. We find what's left of our people. We see the ruins with our own eyes."
"The Sons of Lothar will follow you," Kurdran added, standing as well. "We didn't survive that red hell just to let a walking corpse take the rest of the world."
"And Dalaran?" Khadgar asked. "What remains of the Kirin Tor?"
"They are scattered," Leylin said. "Jaina is trying to gather the survivors. You should find her. She needs your council more than anyone right now."
The meeting broke up then. There were no grand speeches, no clashing of swords. There was only the sound of chairs scraping against the floor and the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots.
The morning light was pouring through the windows, indifferent to the tragedy that had been recounted within the walls.
The Sons of Lothar began their march that afternoon. They moved in a long, disciplined column, the sun glinting off their battered shields.
Turalyon led them, his back straight, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Khadgar accompanied them for a portion of the way before veering off toward the ruins of the mages' city.
Leylin watched them from the balcony of his study. He saw the dust clouds kicked up by the horses, the slow, swaying motion of the gryphons overhead. They were going to a graveyard to see if they could find a spark of life.
Sylvanas stood beside him, her arms crossed. "They think they can fix it," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
"They have to think that," Leylin replied. "It's the only thing that keeps them moving."
"And you?" she asked, turning to look at him. "What do you think?"
Leylin looked at the distant line of soldiers, at the shadows stretching across the Ghostlands, and at the fragile, flickering life of the village below.
"I think we stop counting the dead," he said quietly. "And we start making sure the living have a reason to stay that way."
He turned and went back inside. There was always more work to do. There was always a 'next.' And in a world defined by the dead, the 'next' was the only thing that truly mattered.