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The people that manned the docks that received the returning expedition fleet did not live long. Within hours, they were assaulted by hordes of undead, their personnel quickly overwhelmed and added to the ranks of the Scourge.
People attempted to use communicators to call for help, only to discover that all communications had been jammed by the magic of Black Mages stationed near the docks.
Malak waited as the flagship of the expedition force docked. From it descended Arthas, Frostmourne resting upon his back.
"You look splendid, Prince—no… perhaps I should start calling you King Arthas."
"Spare me your flattery, Malak," Arthas replied, rolling his eyes as he glanced at the Black Mages behind him.
"Consider this contingent a gift. As useful as the undead are, it is best to have thinking individuals for certain roles—especially command."
Arthas nodded.
"Good. They will prove useful when I return home. Will you be joining me?"
"As much as I would love to witness one of the symbols of the old order fall, I cannot. I am needed at our base for the final major step."
Malak sighed in disappointment, nodded once, and vanished into a warp portal.
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Lordaeron City loomed in the distance as Arthas and a small group raced toward it atop jetbikes.
The soldiers manning the gates opened them after confirming that Prince Arthas himself led the group.
Malak had placed a powerful glamour upon Arthas, masking his new form and restoring his former appearance. His companions remained cloaked.
Unlike before, Arthas neither greeted nor acknowledged the people who lined the streets. As he made his way toward Menethil Castle, many felt an unfamiliar sense of unease at the sight of their once-beloved prince.
Waiting in the castle courtyard were King Terenas, his wife Lady Lianne Menethil, and Princess Calia Menethil, surrounded by royal guards to welcome Arthas home.
Behind them stood officials and nobles—most notably Archbishop Alonsus Faol, accompanied by Saidan, Tirion, and Uther.
Officially, Uther served as a guard to the Archbishop alongside Saidan and Tirion. Despite his judgment, a part of him could not help but worry for Arthas. He had hoped this event might grant him a chance to assess his former pupil's state.
Saidan and Tirion understood their paladin brother's concern and remained silent. Alonsus, though saddened by recent events, found some quiet amusement in his greatest student's "shy" demeanor.
Calia and Lianne were deeply worried, having heard of Arthas' falling out with Uther and Jaina, as well as his expulsion from the Order.
Terenas, too, felt concern—but with tensions already high between the crown and the Church, he believed his son did not need their approval. In fact, he assumed this sudden expedition had been Arthas' way of finding balance.
Arthas and his group entered the courtyard. His companions remained behind as Arthas approached his family, smiling.
Alonsus' and Uther's smiles vanished instantly.
Both were Saints—among the greatest wielders of the Holy Light—and in that moment, the Light within them screamed in warning.
Uther felt confusion more than clarity, but Alonsus frowned deeply and stepped forward, trying to discern the source of the danger.
"My son," Terenas said warmly, "I hope this journey went well."
"Indeed it did, Father," Arthas replied. "You could say it was… life-changing."
As Arthas approached, Alonsus' eyes suddenly flared with golden light. His gaze pierced through the glamour—and through the foul blade upon Arthas' back.
Alonsus' face went pale.
"Your Majesty! STAY AWAY FROM HIM!" he shouted, summoning the Holy Light into his hand.
Terenas turned, confused by the warning—only for several royal guards to suddenly be impaled by razor-sharp spikes of ice.
The king's eyes widened as a hand seized his shoulder and turned him around.
The glamour shattered.
Terenas stared in horror at the pale, cold visage of his son as Arthas drew Frostmourne.
"My son… what are you doing?"
"It is time you retire, my dear Father."
Arthas drove Frostmourne straight through him.
"For good."
Lady Lianne screamed. Calia froze in disbelief. Uther, Alonsus, and the entire courtyard watched in horror as Terenas' body froze solid—only for Arthas to shatter it with a single punch.
"Kinslayer!"
"Murderer!"
Saidan and Tirion roared in fury, drawing their weapons, ready to strike Arthas down.
Uther stood frozen, unable to process what he had just witnessed.
Alonsus burned with rage—but he remained lucid.
His gaze snapped to the cloaked figures who had arrived with Arthas—just in time to see them slash their wrists and plunge ceremonial daggers into their own hearts.
Black Mages.
Alonsus' blood ran cold.
The Archbishop turned and unleashed a searing beam of Holy Light.
The Light burned more thoroughly than fire, annihilating most of them instantly—but four completed their ritual, screaming with fanatical devotion.
"FOR THE DARK GODS!"
Their bodies collapsed inward, tearing reality open and transforming into four glowing warp portals—festering wounds in the world itself.
From them emerged daemons: Bloodletters, Plaguebearers, Horrors, and Daemonettes.
And it was not only the courtyard.
Across Lordaeron, Black Mages opened more portals, while undead poured through streets and corridors, slaughtering civilians and soldiers alike—each death swelling the Scourge's ranks.
Back in the courtyard, the daemons fell upon everything nearby with savage glee.
But their rampage would not last long.
"ENOUGH!"
Both Alonsus and Uther roared the word in absolute fury, Uther finally snapping out of his stunned stupor.
Alonsus thrust his staff forward and unleashed a massive wave of Holy Light that swept across half the courtyard on his side. Any daemon unfortunate enough to be caught within it was instantly obliterated, their forms reduced to ash as the ground itself was consecrated.
The courtyard floor now radiated sanctified power—dispelling fear, bolstering resolve, and amplifying the strength of those who fought for Lordaeron and the living.
For the daemons, the effect was the opposite.
To them, the consecrated ground burned worse than molten iron, their daemonic blessings weakened and failing, their resilience stripped away.
In this moment, Alonsus Faol was no longer the kindly old man who led the Church of the Holy Light.
He was a Saint.
A reminder to friend and foe alike why he was not only Archbishop, but also the greatest warrior-priest on Azeroth—the man who had trained Uther and most of the greatest Paladins of the Knights of the Silver Hand.
He was Alonsus Faol, Saint of the Light.
"Warriors of Lordaeron!" Alonsus bellowed."Avenge the blood spilled this day!"
His voice, amplified by the Light, shattered what little hesitation remained.
Paladins, royal guards, soldiers, mages—every man and woman capable of fighting raised their weapons and surged forward.
"Avenge the King!""Kill the heretics!""DEATH!"
Saidan and Tirion instinctively turned toward Arthas, ready to charge—but Uther stopped them with a single look.
They hesitated only a moment before nodding. Tirion moved to reinforce Alonsus and protect the Queen and Princess, while Saidan roared and charged headlong into the densest concentration of daemons, his warhammer crushing daemons with every swing.
Uther watched his brothers-in-arms go, then raised his own warhammer.
Holy Light exploded around him, coating both weapon and armor in a blazing mantle of divine power.
With a thunderous roar, the Highlord of the Silver Hand launched himself forward—
—like a living missile aimed straight at Arthas.
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Arthas frowned as he observed the resistance his forces were facing.
Even the death of the King had failed to break Lordaeron's spirit.
He had underestimated the champions under Lordaeron's rule—especially the Archbishop, who had rallied the defenders even in the face of such horror.
His thoughts were cut short as his former mentor came crashing toward him.
Arthas raised Frostmourne just in time.
BOOOOOOM!
The impact shook the courtyard. Arthas gritted his teeth as his arms trembled violently and the stone beneath his feet shattered into spiderweb cracks.
Even empowered by Frostmourne, Uther's strength was overwhelming—augmented by his status as a Saint and his absolute mastery of the Holy Light, the very antithesis of Arthas' new power.
"Are you truly determined to bring nothing but shame upon me, Arthas?!" Uther snarled as his warhammer pressed down against the cursed blade.
"You banished me for doing my duty!" Arthas snarled back, sidestepping and striking for Uther's blind spot—only for his blow to be intercepted.
"I banished you for needless slaughter!" Uther roared."I expelled you because your spirit was brittle! And instead of repenting—or proving me wrong—"
Uther's next strike sent Arthas skidding backward a dozen steps. Uther followed relentlessly.
"You gave yourself to dark powers! You committed patricide in your own home!"
"And now the blood of the people you swore to protect flows because of your actions!"
"YOU ARE DELUSIONAL IF YOU THINK ANY OF THIS JUSTIFIES YOUR ATROCITIES!"
Fueled by rage, sorrow, and despair, Uther unleashed a storm of crushing blows, determined to end Arthas—to save whatever remained of his soul and atone for his own failure as a mentor.
Arthas' confidence began to crack.
He was barely holding on.
Worse still, the defenders of Lordaeron were steadily pushing the daemons back.
With a devastating hammer strike, Uther shattered Arthas' guard and drove him to one knee. Arthas desperately raised Frostmourne as Uther rained down blow after blow.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The final strike sent Arthas flying like a ragdoll.
He struggled to rise—but before he could even reach his knees, Uther was upon him once more.
Uther raised his warhammer high, Holy Light blazing as he readied his final blow.
But when Arthas lifted his head and met his gaze, bitterness and despair etched across his face—
Uther hesitated.
For a single, damning moment, he saw the Arthas he once knew.
The Kind-hearted boy who always got frustrated if he didn't live up to his people's expectation.
That moment sealed his fate.
Arthas' mind, now fully open to the whispers of the Warp, twisted the sight before him. Where there was pity, he saw mockery. Where there was sorrow, he saw disdain.
Rage flooded him.
With a surge of unnatural strength, Arthas lunged forward and swung Frostmourne in a savage arc meant to bisect Uther entirely.
Uther reacted just in time, leaping back and bringing his warhammer up in defense.
For a heartbeat, it held.
Then Frostmourne cut through it.
The blade tore through Uther's blessed armor, its enchantments unraveling instantly. Only his retreat and the warhammer's partial resistance spared his life.
Even so, the strike carved a brutal wound from shoulder to hip. Blood spilled across the consecrated ground.
Uther gasped as an unnatural cold tried to spread through his body, draining his strength and vitality. Only his immense Holy Light managed to hold it at bay—slowly, painfully purging the corruption.
He dropped to one knee.
Arthas grinned as the "whispers" urged him to finish the Lightbringer.
And he was eager to obey.
Across the courtyard, seeing Uther wounded and kneeling after dominating the fight struck terror into the defenders' hearts.
The Lightbringer had fallen.
Alonsus felt horror claw at his heart.
One of his greatest pupils—one of the children he had watched grow, whom he had loved as a son—was about to be killed by his own student.
He wanted to save Uther.
But he couldn't.
The daemons had marked Alonsus as their primary target. Even if he abandoned all caution and forced his way through the battlefield, he knew he would never reach Uther in time.
Saidan was too far away, holding the flank to prevent their forces from being surrounded. All he could do was watch in helpless fury.
Tirion was bound to Queen Lianne and Princess Calia, shielding them—and several unarmed nobles and officials—from the encroaching horrors. He was searching desperately for an opening to evacuate them, or at least move them to safer ground.
Everyone was trapped.
Then—
"ARTHAS, NOOOO!"
Lianne and Calia both understood what Arthas intended to do as he approached the fallen Uther. Lianne, in particular, felt the crushing weight of dread deepen into suffocating terror.
Today had been meant to be a joyous reunion.
Instead, she had watched her son return as a monster—murder his father, plunge their city into Chaos, and consort with dark powers.
Logic told her that Arthas' actions had already damned him.
But a mother's love was neither logical nor restrained.
She blamed the dark powers that had ensnared him—whatever had twisted her child—and she could not bear to watch him damn himself further by killing the man who had raised him to be a knight of the Light.
So she ran.
Tirion was locked in combat with a Herald of Khorne, his blade straining against the daemon's hellblade when he saw the Queen break from cover.
"Your Majesty!"
"Eyes on me, Paladin!" the Herald roared. "Your skull will adorn the Skull Throne!"
"Burn in whatever hole you crawled out of!" Tirion shouted.
With a surge of power, he shattered the deadlock, blasting the Herald through the chest with a bolt of Holy Light from his free hand. The daemon screamed as the Light burned it from within, and Tirion decapitated it in one clean motion.
"Mother—wait!" Calia cried, horror filling her voice as she tried to run after her.
Tirion caught her just in time, pulling her back—
—but Lianne was already gone.
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Arthas stood over Uther, Frostmourne raised high.
Uther glared up at him in defiance, blood staining the consecrated ground.
"Goodbye, Master," Arthas said coldly. "For what it's worth… you taught me well."
"Now my greatest regret," Uther spat back.
Arthas' lips curled into a frigid smile as he drove Frostmourne downward.
"ARTHAS!"
Lianne threw herself between them.
The blade pierced her chest instead.
Time froze.
Both Arthas and Uther stared in shock as the Queen of Lordaeron collapsed against the cursed runeblade.
"…Mother…" Arthas whispered. "No… no, no, no—!"
A vast, hollow abyss opened in his chest as he pulled her into his arms, blood soaking his armor and pooling at his feet. Frostmourne remained embedded in her body—the cruel irony being that it was the only thing slowing the bleeding.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Arthas had prepared himself to kill those he once loved—Uther, even his father Terenas, whom he blamed for Lordaeron's weakness.
But there were two people he could never bring himself to kill.
His mother, Lianne.
His elder sister, Calia.
He had planned to capture them instead—protect them personally from his new "allies."
And yet…
For the first time since his transformation, Arthas' mind cleared.
The whispering presences withdrew—not out of mercy, but cruelty. They wanted him to feel this moment fully. To experience every shard of it without distortion.
Lianne's lips trembled as blood spilled from her mouth. She had never imagined that she would die today—
—by her own child's hand.
She looked up at Arthas' face. So familiar… yet so terribly changed.
"Arthas…"
"I'm here, Mother! You'll be alright—please, just stay with me! Please!"
But even as he begged, she felt the unnatural cold spreading through her body, Frostmourne's curse seeping into her very soul.
"…What… did they… do to you… Art—"
The light left her eyes.
Her skin paled. Frost crept across her flesh.
Arthas screamed in denial, desperately willing the ice to retreat—commanding it, pleading with it—
—but it did nothing.
Lianne froze solid.
Then shattered.
Ice and snow spilled through Arthas' arms as Frostmourne clattered to the ground.
Arthas fell to his knees, staring in muted horror at the frozen remnants in his beloved "mother".
Calia sobbed, tears streaming down her face as she watched her mother die.
Alonsus, Saidan, and Tirion felt fury—not at Arthas alone, but at themselves, for yet another tragedy they had been powerless to stop.
Uther bowed his head in crushing shame. If only I hadn't hesitated…
Across the courtyard, the defenders of Lordaeron felt their resolve finally break.
Their Queen was dead.
Undead began pouring into the courtyard from the city itself.
The battle was lost.
"Retreat!" Alonsus commanded.
Gunships descended into the courtyard, guns blazing, carving through enemy ranks as soldiers and civilians scrambled aboard.
Undead surrounded Arthas, shielding him as he remained motionless, staring at the snow melting through his fingers.
Saidan hauled Uther to his feet, slinging the wounded Paladin's arm over his shoulder. Together they boarded a gunship already carrying Alonsus, Tirion, and Calia.
The ships lifted off at full speed, fleeing as fast as their engines allowed.
Behind them, Lordaeron burned.
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Arthas slowly rose.
Only now did he begin to comprehend the true cost of the power he had bargained for—and the cost yet to come.
Bitterness.
Hatred.
Despair.
Malice.
Delusion.
What remained of Arthas Menethil's soul sank into the endless abyss called Chaos.
He grabbed Frostmourne and screamed into the void.
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"
It was a scream heard for miles—yet heard by none.
It echoed across layers of reality, filled with fury and anguish beyond mortal limits.
Frostmourne blazed with eerie blue light, its runes flaring as it poured even more power into its bearer.
Arthas slammed the runeblade into the ground.
A colossal pillar of corrupted, icy-blue energy erupted skyward, piercing the clouds themselves.
The shockwave engulfed the entire capital.
Those it did not kill outright were raised moments later as undead servants of the Scourge.
The few who survived longer were hunted down and added to the same fate.
Only the fleeing gunships escaped destruction—those last to depart barely outrunning the edge of the blast.
From one of the ships, Alonsus, Saidan, Tirion, Uther, and Calia watched through a viewport as one the greatest human cities was transformed into a breeding ground of death.
By its own Crown Prince.
Calia sat catatonic, eyes vacant.
Uther stared at the floor, consumed by shame and rage.
Saidan's grip nearly crushed his warhammer's handle.
Tirion felt his heart burn with the same fury and guilt.
Alonsus alone watched the distant pillar of corruption in silence.
"Master…" Tirion asked quietly. "What happens now?"
Alonsus did not answer immediately.
Then he sighed.
"We do our duty," he said at last."Now more than ever."
"Harden your hearts. Strengthen your faith. An era has ended—and do not deceive yourselves into thinking this is the end."
"There will be more battles ahead."
"A dark age has come to Azeroth."
On that day, the Great Kingdom of Lordaeron fell.
And a time of vengeance/justice had begun.
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