Siege of Icecrown – The Gathering Storms
The wind howled across the frozen plains of Icecrown, carrying with it the bitter scent of death and the faint stench of rot. Beneath a sky choked with swirling snow and unnatural storm clouds, two colossal armies had gathered, separated by little more than open ice and ancient hatred.
On the western ridge, the Alliance made camp—tents stretched in rigid rows beneath banners of blue and gold. Fires flickered behind windshields of canvas and steel, casting ghostly light upon the grim faces of soldiers from Stormwind, Ironforge, Darnassus, and beyond. Gnomish engineers clanked through the camp, tuning siege tanks and arcane stabilizers. Elven archers sharpened arrows in silence, their eyes fixed on the horizon.
To the east, the Horde massed like a brewing thunderstorm. Red and black standards whipped violently in the wind. Orcish grunts paced restlessly, sharpening blades already stained from past wars. Trolls muttered war prayers over bones. Tauren braves stood stoically in the snow, their breath curling into the air. Forsaken apothecaries tended their grotesque vials. Blood Elf magisters flared magic into the air like nervous fingers tapping.
Between them, neutral ground had been claimed by the Argent Crusade. Their silver banners stood as a fragile wall between two ancient enemies who had agreed—at least in word—to fight a common enemy. In the far distance, like a black wound torn into the sky, loomed Icecrown Citadel. Its towers were jagged, frozen things, etched with death and malice. Even from miles away, the undead were visible: endless ranks of ghouls, skeletal knights, and towering abominations, all standing silently beneath the gaze of their master.
A massive war tent had been erected on the no-man's-land between the two armies—crafted from both Horde and Alliance materials, its seams pulled taut like the truce itself. Argent Crusade soldiers stood guard at its perimeter, arms crossed, ready to intervene should diplomacy give way to rage.
Inside the tent, the atmosphere was suffocating with tension.
From the Alliance, King Varian Wrynn entered first, his heavy cloak dusted with frost, eyes sharp and cold. He moved like a coiled blade, every step measured. Behind him came Tirion Fordring, radiant in polished plate, Ashbringer slung across his back like a banner of divine wrath. Muradin Bronzebeard arrived shortly after, grumbling about wasted time and half-frozen boots. Lady Jaina Proudmoore stood silent, her face pale with anxiety and hidden fury. Bolvar Fordragon completed the group, solemn and commanding.
From the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream approached like a beast let off its chain. His massive frame seemed too large for the tent, muscles bulging beneath black iron armor. His face bore a permanent snarl. Behind him walked Varok Saurfang, silent and grave, and Lady Liadrin, cloaked in red and gold, eyes sharp as polished steel.
The two sides glared across the war table.
Then came the spark.
The tent had fallen into a tense, suffocating silence. The cold seemed to creep inward, not just from the storm outside, but from the weight of long-held grudges pressing in on all sides. Eyes locked like drawn blades. Knuckles whitened on sword hilts. Breath fogged in the frigid air, the only sound the faint snap of canvas in the wind.
And then—Jaina spoke.
Her voice was cold and brittle as frostbite. "It's no wonder you reek like a kennel, Garrosh. You probably haven't bathed since your last strategic thought. Which, I imagine, was sometime around your birth."
A ripple of barely-suppressed laughter passed through the Alliance officers. Muradin smirked. A dwarf nearby muttered, "She's got more bite than his whole warband."
Garrosh's nostrils flared. His lip curled, tusks bared in a predatory sneer.
"You speak bold for a frostbitten knife-ear's pet," he growled, voice low and venomous. "Keep your tongue behind your king's tabard, mage, before someone tears it out."
Jaina didn't flinch. Her chin lifted.
"You're nothing but a tusked musclehead with a battle axe for a brain. You think tactics come from screaming louder and bleeding faster."
Garrosh's hand twitched near his side. He stepped forward, heavy bootfalls thudding like drums of war.
"Say that again, gutter-witch."
She did.
The back of Garrosh's hand cut through the air like a thrown hammer. The sound of the slap cracked across the tent like a whip.
Jaina stumbled, one hand to her face, a red welt already blooming across her cheek. Her eyes flashed—not with tears, but with wrath.
For a moment, the tent fell into a stunned, airless silence. Even the torches flickered as if recoiling.
Then Varian moved.
The King of Stormwind didn't speak. He launched forward with a roar, colliding with Garrosh like a boulder rolling downhill. They smashed through the war table—maps, markers, and war plans scattering like leaves in a storm. Chairs splintered, ink splashed across armor, and molten candle wax hissed on the floor.
Fists flew with brutal fury. Gauntlets crunched bone. Varian's elbow crashed into Garrosh's jaw; Garrosh's knee slammed into Varian's ribs. They rolled, snarling, punching, biting like cornered beasts.
Tirion bellowed for order. Muradin swore in Dwarvish and drew his hammer. Bolvar tried to separate them with sheer strength, but it was too late—the blaze had already caught the tinder.
Outside, the ripple spread.
A Horde grunt laughed loud and sharp. "Your king gets slapped and hides behind his woman's skirts!"
A Stormwind captain spun around, face like stone. "Say that again, pig-skin."
The orc's grin widened. "I said he's as spineless as a gnome's knees. And twice as small."
Steel whispered free of its scabbard.
The truce shattered.
A single sword swing became a thousand. Screams tore through the night. Steel rang against steel. Magic erupted in crackling bursts. Arrows zipped through the camp, striking tents and flesh alike.
"Pig-skins!"
"Milk-bloods!"
"Knife-ears!"
"Banner-humpers!"
"Corpse-kissers!"
"Flesh-cows!"
The insults flew like thrown knives, soaked in centuries of hate. And then came blood.
Not a battle. Not yet. Just madness—tribal fury unleashed in close quarters. Commanders were dragged into the chaos, either trying to stop it or pulled under it. Argent Crusaders scrambled to contain the violence, but they were few against many. Neutrality crumbled under the weight of ancestral grudges.
And beyond it all—above the carnage, past the screams, beyond the rage—the undead still stood.
Silent.
Unmoving.
Waiting.
And as battle erupted in the camps, Tirion Fordring stood atop a small rise near the edge of the Argent Crusade lines, the glow of torches painting his silvered armor in shades of gold and fire. Below him stretched the largest assembled host of mounted warriors Azeroth had seen since the War of the Ancients.
The Argent Crusade, thirty thousand strong, stood in perfect formation. Every one of them an Alliance race—humans, dwarves, night elves, gnomes, and draenei—bound together not by flag, but by faith and purpose. All were mounted upon war-trained steeds, their silvered armor catching the flickers of torchlight and the glow of righteous conviction.
Beside them stood the Blood Legion—ten thousand champions of the Alliance. Adventurers. Heroes. Legends. Their mounts were as varied as their weapons: mighty warhorses, storm sabers, mechanostriders, armored wolves, and spectral steeds glowing with arcane fire. Veterans, wanderers, zealots, and saints. Each bore the scars of Northrend's long campaign, each ready to etch one final story in blood and fire.
And behind them, rallying stragglers from the broken front, came Bolvar Fordragon, blade raised, rallying to Tirion's side. His voice cut through the madness like a blade through shadow, gathering fleeing knights and faltering banners. Bolvar was like some hero of old as he now rode among the ranks—restoring order, stoking courage, calling the faithful to war.
Beyond the no-man's-land, the Scourge legions stood in silent, soulless ranks—an ocean of undeath stretching from horizon to horizon. Skeletal warriors in rusted plate. Necrotic hounds snarling between the gaps. Banshees drifting like smoke. Towering abominations stitched from the fallen. And above them loomed Icecrown Citadel, its black towers jutting skyward like fangs tearing at the storm-swollen heavens.
Tirion raised his blade—Ashbringer, its edge alive with golden, searing holy fire that shimmered even through the choking snow. The light it cast was not warm. It was pure. Righteous. A beacon in the darkness.
His voice rang out over the fields like a war horn made of thunder and judgment.
"Brothers! Sisters!" he bellowed, his breath steaming like smoke from a forge. "Look upon that cursed tower! Look upon the rot and ruin it casts upon our world! That is the seat of death itself—and today, we ride to cleanse it!"
He paused, the silence that followed filled only by the wind and the faint, creaking groans of the undead army in the distance.
"Not as Alliance. Not as Horde." His voice lowered, but it grew no softer. "But as champions of life. As defenders of hope. As those who would see the sun rise again over a free world—not a world ruled by frost and shadow!"
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The soldiers before him shifted in their saddles. Some closed their eyes in silent prayer. Others whispered to loved ones long buried. Dozens wept quietly—grizzled warriors, scarred and world-worn, moved not by fear, but by the terrible nobility of what they were about to do.
Tirion's eyes burned like twin suns beneath his helm. He pointed Ashbringer toward the Citadel, and with the full power of the Light behind him, he roared:
"Ride with me! For Azeroth! For the Light! FOR THE LIVING!"
He slammed his heels into his charger.
The beast reared, its barded hooves flaring with holy radiance as it screamed. Tirion did not look back. He rode into the storm, one man against the apocalypse.
And behind him, the world answered.
The earth trembled.
Hooves pounded like thunder across the frozen plains, shaking loose frost from the cracked stone. Snow burst in clouds beneath iron shoes. The blizzard howled above, but it was drowned beneath the roar of war. The ground itself seemed to buckle under the weight of the charge.
Forty thousand mounted warriors surged forward in a tide of steel, fire, and fury.
At the head rode the Blood Legion, their formation tight and fearless. Warriors in gleaming plate and scorched leathers. Mages in cloaks aflame with arcane power. Rogues crouched low over their spectral panthers and sabers, blades flashing like lightning. Paladins held their hammers aloft, glowing with golden light. Hunters loosed arrows mid-gallop, their beasts tearing ahead with fangs bared. Warlocks rode beasts from other planes, fire and shadow licking at the hooves of their steeds.
Their war cries rose into the blizzard like a storm of defiance.
"FOR AZEROTH!"
"BLOOD FOR THE LIVING!"
"GLORY AND LIGHT!"
Banners snapped above them—each a story, each a legacy—flapping violently in the stormwinds. The banners of Stormwind, Ironforge, and Darnassus, of old guilds and fallen houses, of crusades past and forgotten orders.
The Argent Crusade thundered behind them, unwavering. Thirty thousand strong. Every lance lowered in perfect harmony. Rows of white-armored knights formed an unbreakable wall of faith and steel. Their warhorses roared as they charged, divine energy crackling from plated hooves. Chants filled the air in deep, resonant cadence:
"Blessed be the Light—cleanse the rot!"
"No grave shall take us!"
"Ash to ash, death to death!"
Mages hurled fireballs ahead of the charge, explosions carving fiery paths through the drifts. Priests raised shields of radiant light to ward the first lines. Shamans called to the sky, bolts of lightning answering like dragons from the heavens.
The sky above was torn by magic. The ground below split beneath weight and wrath.
As the charge reached full speed, the line between living and dead blurred in white mist, in shadow and flame.
And Icecrown braced for the impact of the righteous.
And the undead answered.
They did not shout. They did not roar. They screamed.
A thousand shrieking banshees wailed from the towers above, their ethereal cries rattling bone and soul alike. Horns of black bone blew from behind the walls of Icecrown, their notes deep and unnatural, shaking the snow beneath the charge. The ground cracked. From beneath the icy earth burst skeletal hands—undead foot soldiers dragging themselves up in droves, empty eye sockets glowing with blue fire.
Then the lines collided.
The impact was cataclysmic.
The Blood Legion and the Argent Crusade slammed into the Scourge with such force that it sent bodies—living and dead—soaring into the air. Horses trampled ghouls underfoot, hooves crunching bone and splitting skulls. Lances impaled abominations, splinters of steel jutting from their twisted hides. The front rows were swallowed in a maelstrom of blood and rot.
Undead ranks buckled but did not break. For every ghoul crushed beneath a warhorse, three more crawled over the corpses. For every banshee struck down by a priest's light, another shrieked from the battlements. Plague hounds lunged, dragging riders from saddles, tearing through armor with necrotic fangs. Abominations swung cleavers the size of wagons, carving bloody arcs through packed formations.
The snow turned black with ash and red with blood.
The sky was a thunderstorm of magic—arcane explosions lit up the battlefield in bursts of violet and blue, while ribbons of holy light burned through undead ranks. Shamans called down fire from the heavens, incinerating undead by the dozens. Warlocks hurled fel fire and summoned twisted horrors that clashed with undead monstrosities in unspeakable duels of flame and bone.
The Blood Legion carved a spearhead through the enemy like a blade of defiance. Warriors hacked left and right, their weapons slick with gore. Mages rode forward under shields of frost, blasting ghouls apart. Paladins stood as beacons in the chaos, channeling divine radiance, healing wounds even as their blades struck down foes. Hunters loosed arrows by the dozen, each one finding a new skull to split.
But the Scourge was endless.
They came in waves—reinforcements rising from the battlefield itself. The dead didn't retreat. They didn't falter. They clawed, bit, and screamed until they were cut to pieces, only for necromancers to raise them again moments later. The riders were swallowed in pockets, isolated, torn from their lines. Horses were gutted mid-stride. Clerics screamed as banshees possessed their bodies, turning blessings into curses.
Still the living pressed on.
Tirion led the vanguard, Ashbringer blazing with every strike, its golden arc carving a path through death. His horse leapt a pile of corpses, only to land amidst another cluster of undead. His sword sang, severing limbs and heads, burning through corruption. Around him, the elite of the Blood Legion fought like gods—blades flashing, spells ripping the battlefield apart in defiance of inevitability.
It wasn't order. It wasn't strategy. It was survival.
And yet... inch by inch, body by body, they pushed forward.
The Citadel loomed closer, its gates yawning open like the maw of a beast. The snow was red, the wind was screams, and hope burned only because they refused to let it die.
They had met the dead. And they were not broken. Not yet.
But the cost was mounting.
The charge had lost momentum. The crisp formations of the Argent Crusade had fractured into brutal, close-quarters melees. Riders hacked from horseback, some trampled by their own. Golems of flesh and iron collapsed under volleys of holy light, only to explode and take half a squad with them. The ground beneath the warriors churned, a red and gray slurry of blood, ash, and mud.
From the rear, Bolvar Fordragon surged forward, his sword trailing fire. "Reform the flanks! Protect the spellcasters! Push toward the gate!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos like a horn blast.
Rallying around him, pockets of Blood Legion and Argent Crusaders regrouped, forming wedge formations to cut deeper into the undead host. A dwarf priest leapt onto a fallen knight's horse, light exploding from his hands as he rode straight into a mass of ghouls. A gnome rogue vanished in a blink, reappearing atop a necromancer and burying daggers into its spine.
The Blood Legion paid dearly with every step.
A hundred warriors fell to a single shriek as a banshee dove through their ranks, exploding in a burst of soulfire. A paladin's mount collapsed mid-gallop, crushing both rider and a ghoul beneath it. A tauren death knight, impossibly strong and clad in black saronite, tore through the Legion's side until a fire mage turned him to ash with a scream of vengeance and a pillar of flame.
Still they pushed.
At the center of it all was Tirion Fordring, bloodied, battered, and brilliant. His helm was cracked, his shield gone, but Ashbringer had never burned brighter. Every undead that dared stand before him was reduced to ash. His war cry rang out again and again—wordless now, primal, the cry of a man whose soul had already decided to die, so long as his sword struck true.
Then—at last—the gates of Icecrown Citadel loomed.
They had reached the base of the fortress.
The walls rose high above them, vast and obsidian, etched with runes that pulsed a dull blue. Towers loomed overhead, eyes watching from every ledge. From the battlements, death rained—arrows of bone, bolts of frost magic, and cauldrons of burning plague. The few remaining siege engines began their final approach, flanked by dwarven engineers and gnomish mechanics scrambling under fire.
"Break the line! Get to the walls! Get inside!" Bolvar shouted, pushing forward with a shield raised above his head.
A massive abomination stood before the gate, stitched together with the parts of a hundred dead. It swung a cleaver as long as a wagon, scattering men like straw.
And then a warlock on a skeletal wyvern dropped from the sky—his robes aflame, his voice a chant of damnation. He hurled a meteor of fel fire into the beast's chest. The explosion shook the earth. Screams followed. The gate stood unguarded.
Tirion didn't wait.
He surged forward with the remnants of the Blood Legion—now fewer than a thousand. They rode over broken bones, fallen allies, and shattered spears. They climbed over corpses, fought through burning plague, and screamed through the blood in their throats.
And then—finally—they crossed the threshold.
Inside Icecrown Citadel, the cold deepened. The air grew heavy. The echoes of the outside world faded. The cries of the dying fell behind them.
All that remained was silence. Darkness. And the scent of death.
They were inside the enemy's heart.
And the Lich King knew they had come.
The heavy gates groaned shut behind them, sealing with a deep, echoing thud that vibrated through stone and bone alike.
The screams of the battlefield outside fell away.
And in their place—silence.
A dead, heavy silence that clung to the soul like a burial shroud.
The interior of Icecrown Citadel was unlike anything the Blood Legion or Argent Crusade had faced before. It was not a fortress. It was a tomb.
The grand entry hall stretched for hundreds of feet, an unholy cathedral of blackened steel and frozen bone. Pillars shaped like writhing, screaming bodies held up a vaulted ceiling that shimmered with trapped souls, their pale faces twisted in agony beneath the icy surface. The walls were lined with frozen banners—some bearing the sigils of long-dead kingdoms, others the torn standards of those who had come before... and failed.
The floor was slick with frost and something darker. Blood, still steaming, pooled around shattered armor and snapped weapons. Corpses of fallen adventurers—some barely days old—were strewn like offerings before the Citadel's wrath.
Flickering braziers lit the corridor, but their flames were pale and cold. They did not offer warmth. They hissed at the presence of the living.
The charge had splintered. Of the original forty thousand who had stormed the gates, perhaps one thousand had made it inside. Of the ten thousand Blood Legion, barely three hundred remained.
They advanced cautiously now. No more reckless charges. No more horns.
Just swords drawn. Shields raised. Eyes wide.
Whispers began—subtle at first. Not from mouths, but from the walls themselves. Faint voices that mimicked lost comrades, dead children, old regrets. A human knight dropped to his knees in the middle of the procession, sobbing uncontrollably. A draenei priest clutched her head and began muttering to herself. She didn't stop.
Tirion pressed forward at the head, jaw clenched. The light around Ashbringer flickered like a flame in the wind, strained by the sheer depth of the Citadel's corruption.
"This place…" muttered Bolvar, his eyes sweeping across the cavernous interior. "It was built not just to keep the living out—but to keep the damned in."
From the darkness ahead came the first defenders.
Not mindless ghouls. Not stitched horrors.
These were the Death Knights—once mortal champions, now bound in cursed plate, eyes aglow with icy hatred. They stood in perfect formation, blocking the grand staircase ahead, flanked by skeletal warbeasts and cloaked necromancers who whispered in forbidden tongues.
A single Death Knight stepped forward, dragging a massive two-handed blade that left frost trailing in its wake.
"Turn back," he rasped. "Your souls are already claimed."
Tirion didn't speak.
He raised Ashbringer.
And charged.
The Citadel exploded into motion. Undead spells tore through the air. Lances of shadow magic ripped into the front lines. Warriors screamed and fell. Ice surged up from the floor, skewering the legs of horses, freezing men in place before shattering them like glass.
But the Blood Legion answered in kind. They surged forward like a second storm—mages countered death magic with flame, paladins channeled the Light to ward against the dark, and warlocks unleashed demons to clash with the Scourge's own twisted creations.
The first hall became a charnel house. Piles of bones stacked in corners. Arrows embedded in the eyes of broken statues. Corpses—again—littered the ground, many dying on the same flagstones they had bled across just hours before.
But they pressed forward.
Step by bloodied step.
Toward the first great spiral staircase.
Toward the Plagueworks, and the horrors waiting beyond.
Every corridor was a battle. Every breath drawn a gift. Every heartbeat a defiance of death itself.
And above it all, on the highest balcony of the Citadel, Arthas Menethil, the Lich King, watched in silence.
Beside him stood Sylvanas Windrunner, her eyes dark with devotion, her expression unreadable.
"Let them come," Arthas murmured, voice echoing through the frozen halls. "Let them climb the tower. One corpse at a time."
The grand staircase spiraled upward like a ribcage turned inward, its stone steps slick with blood and melted frost. As the survivors climbed, they could hear the Citadel groan around them—metal warping, bone shifting, ice cracking under unseen weight. The whispers were louder now, a chorus of the damned gnawing at sanity.
Every torch that lit the way cast twice as many shadows. Some moved when the soldiers did not.
At the top, the smell hit them first.
Rot. Alchemical bile. Acrid smoke and something deeper—something diseased.
They entered the Plagueworks, and whatever hope had survived the entry hall began to die.
The chamber stretched wide and low like a slaughterhouse cathedral. Vats of boiling green liquid bubbled across the floor, each one large enough to drown a mammoth. Hooks hung from chains above, swaying on their own. Gears turned with no visible source, grinding bone and flesh into paste that was fed into conduits lining the walls. In the center, a massive slab of blackstone bore the corpses of three adventurers—skinned, dissected, and still twitching with unholy animation.
The Citadel's defenders here were different—twisted experiments of necromancy and science. Hulking, asymmetrical horrors with tubes drilled into their skulls. Golems stitched together from several species. Plague eruptors. Bone reavers.
And behind them stood Professor Putricide—the architect of this horror. Clad in a tattered lab coat, face hidden behind a plague mask carved from bone, he clapped joyfully as the invaders approached.
"Oh! More test subjects!" he chirped. "Let's see what you're made of. Preferably... inside out."
He waved his scalpel.
And death was unleashed.
Gas filled the chamber—thick, yellow, choking. Screams echoed as warriors tore off helmets only to find their lungs already burning. Mages tried to counter the toxins with wind magic. Priests conjured bubbles of clean air. Paladins fell to their knees, purging poisons from their blood with sheer will.
The battle raged.
Putricide's creations surged forward. One abomination with six arms grabbed a knight by the waist and pulled—ripping him apart like cloth. A draenei paladin impaled it on her hammer, even as plague maggots burst from its chest and swarmed her legs.
Warlocks summoned felguards that hurled plague beasts into vats of acid. Mages froze bridges over the bubbling slime pits, only for the ice to crack and dump half a squad to their melting screams. Rogues leapt from hook to hook overhead, landing behind necromancers and driving daggers into corrupted spines.
The Blood Legion led every push. They lost dozens. Then hundreds.
What had entered the Citadel as ten thousand now bled away in minutes.
Tirion charged straight for Putricide, Ashbringer blazing, carving a holy path through bile-soaked floor tiles. Bolvar flanked him, blade red-hot from parrying pestilent halberds.
Putricide didn't laugh anymore.
He screamed as Ashbringer cleaved through his alchemical core, light boiling through every rotted organ. His body convulsed, cracked, and collapsed—leaving only a steaming stain behind.
Silence fell—brief, suffocating, awful.
Then the coughing began.
They had won the Plagueworks.
But it hadn't been a victory. It had been a winnowing.
Fewer than a thousand Blood Legion heroes remained now. The Argent Crusade had been gutted—five thousand or less from the original thirty. Men and women vomited bile into corners. Dozens were blind from the gas. Many would never leave this floor, too wounded or poisoned to go on.
Yet still they climbed.
Still they pressed upward—because every moment they lingered, the Scourge grew stronger.
Above them: the Crimson Hall.
And the shadow of death's royalty waited at the top of the stairs.
The hall stank of steel, frost, and old blood.
The last doors to the upper levels opened with a hiss of frost-laced air, revealing a vast, torchlit corridor filled with thick pillars and torn banners. Bones littered the floor—fresh and ancient, crushed into dust or piled as trophies along the sides. At its far end, illuminated by the dull blue glow of soul-torches, stood a towering warrior clad in obsidian-black deathplate, his runeblade already drawn.
His eyes glowed with a terrible, unnatural light. Blue fire beneath a wolf-shaped helm.
Dranosh Saurfang.
He stood motionless at first, the stillness of death etched into every inch of him—until the survivors entered. Then, slowly, like a marionette's first movement, his head tilted, and his blade lifted.
He did not speak.
He did not need to.
With a snarl of dark fury, he charged.
What followed was not a battle—it was a massacre.
Dranosh moved like a living weapon, every strike a cleave through steel, flesh, and faith. A single arc of his sword split a paladin and his mount in two. A rogue blinked behind him, only to be backhanded across the room by a rune-covered gauntlet. His power was not just in brute strength—it was in the Lich King's will, pouring through him like frostfire.
"It's him!" someone gasped.
"It's Saurfang's son!"
"Gods… what has he become?"
The Blood Legion surged to meet him. Mages unleashed volleys of fire and frost. Hunters loosed arrows blessed by the Light. Warlocks called forth infernals to slam down around him.
It wasn't enough.
Dranosh carved a path of destruction up the long corridor, leaving a trail of twisted corpses and shattered weapons. Bones crunched beneath his boots. Screams echoed in his wake. Every time they thought him slowed, he roared back into motion—unstoppable, undead rage.
Finally, wounded and outnumbered, he turned and retreated—but not in defeat. He moved with eerie, deliberate purpose, ascending a wide staircase that led to a high balcony overlooking the ice-choked battlefield below. The wind screamed through the shattered stained glass above. Snow and ash swirled in the stormlight.
There, beneath a frozen banner bearing the sigil of the Horde, he turned and made his last stand.
The survivors followed. Tirion, Bolvar, and the Blood Legion—what little remained of them—pressed forward, climbing the stairs soaked in blood and snow. The storm howled. The Citadel trembled.
Dranosh waited for them in the center of the balcony, standing beneath the flickering torchlight. His chest heaved with icy breath. Blood—living and undead—dripped from his armor. Behind him, the wind howled over the edge of the abyss.
Tirion stepped forward.
"Dranosh…" he said, almost gently. "You don't have to do this."
The Death Knight paused.
For a moment—just a heartbeat—his eyes flickered. Blue became silver. His grip loosened.
Then the Lich King's will snapped the leash tight.
Dranosh howled and lunged.
The final fight was savage.
He struck like a cornered animal. Bolvar was hurled back over a railing, barely catching the edge. A Legion champion was beheaded. A priest was frozen solid mid-spell and shattered. But the Blood Legion pressed in, blades glinting, spells blazing.
And then—one final blow.
A two-handed sword, blessed by the Light, struck through his gut. He staggered. Another blade severed his tendons. He dropped to his knees, roaring. Tirion stepped forward.
Ashbringer rose.
And Dranosh Saurfang—champion, warrior, son—was decapitated with a single, radiant arc.
His body slumped forward, lifeless at last. The blue glow in his eyes died like candlelight snuffed.
---
Varok Saurfang stood motionless on the bridge of Orgrim's Hammer, his broad shoulders slumped. The sight of his son, Dranosh Saurfang, crumpled on the battlefield below, had frozen him in place. His hand, once gripping the spyglass, now hung limp by his side.
The orc general's heart had shattered.
He didn't speak. He didn't order his crew. He didn't even look at the battlefield around him. The wail of the battle horns, the crack of artillery, the screams of his soldiers—it all faded into a hollow, oppressive silence.
"Dranosh…" His voice was barely a whisper, lost in the wind. The son he had fought to protect, the one who had followed him into every battle, was now lost to the cold, unyielding grasp of the Lich King.
In that moment, something inside Varok broke. His pride, his duty—all of it seemed meaningless. The weight of his son's death crushed his spirit. The battle, the war—it no longer mattered.
Without his son, without his hope, Varok's will to fight crumbled.
Above, Jaina Proudmoore, standing on the deck of the Skybreaker, saw it all.
She could feel the oppressive weight of Saurfang's despair—an emotional collapse, the death of a father's heart. For a brief moment, she almost felt pity for him. But that fleeting moment was swept away by the burning rage that had been building inside her since Garrosh slapped her in the tent.
Her cheek still burned from the sting, the humiliation fresh in her mind. The Orc Warchief's insult had crossed a line she couldn't ignore. And now, the thought of Varok's resignation—his silent surrender—was something she would never tolerate. He wasn't a hero to her. He wasn't a figure of nobility or honor. He was just another orc, and her hatred for them ran deep.
Jaina's grip tightened on the railing of the Skybreaker as she stared out over the chaos. The Horde gunship was crippled, leaderless, and now there was nothing stopping her from making the most ruthless decision she'd ever make.
A madness crept into her heart—a recklessness, a desire to punish, to end the Horde's threat once and for all. She didn't care about the consequences. She didn't care about the cost.
Jaina's voice was cold, sharp as ice, when she commanded the crew, "Bring us around. Full speed. Reinforce the prow. Target Orgrim's Hammer."
The crew hesitated. "What are you ordering, Commander?"
"Full speed. I want that ship dead. Ramming speed. Now."
The captain looked nervously at her, but there was nothing to say. The order had been given. The ship's engines roared to life, and Skybreaker lurched forward, its massive hull cutting through the air like a knife.
The Horde ship, Orgrim's Hammer, already on fire, limped through the sky, smoke trailing behind it. Varok stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the horizon, on his son's death, lost in the finality of it all.
He saw nothing else.
Jaina didn't wait. She didn't care anymore.
Her mind, clouded by hatred, her judgment clouded by her own bitterness, was filled only with the desire to destroy. She didn't care if it meant destroying herself, if it meant breaking everything around her. In that moment, all that mattered was the fall of the Horde.
And so, with a deafening crash, the Skybreaker's prow slammed into Orgrim's Hammer with all the force of a rampaging beast.
The massive explosion that followed ripped through the deck of Orgrim's Hammer. The ship was torn in half, as though the very heart of the Horde had been cleaved open. The front of the ship crumpled like paper, sending burning wreckage flying into the air. The aft exploded in a massive fireball, throwing debris and bodies in every direction.
For a split second, Varok Saurfang didn't move.
The explosion tore through the ship, and with it, the last remnants of the Horde's once-great airship. Saurfang was thrown from the bridge as the gunship split in two, the blast ripping through his bones. He died with his eyes wide open, staring at the wreckage, staring at his son's corpse, now nothing more than a broken memory in the cold wind.
There was no victory for the Horde here.
---
The explosion reverberated across the battlefield, sending shockwaves that rattled the very earth. The sound of destruction was deafening, a cacophony that filled every ear.
The Horde was not the force it once was. Their leadership had faltered. Their ranks scattered in disbelief.
The more intelligent races of the Horde, the Blood Elves, Trolls, and Forsaken, knew the battle was lost. They saw the death of Saurfang, the destruction of Orgrim's Hammer, and the destruction of their hope. Panic set in.
"Fall back!" A troll bellowed.
"Run!" a Forsaken soldier shrieked.
Varian Wrynn, his voice clear and triumphant, raised his sword high. "Victory is ours! Let the Horde scatter in their defeat!"
He saw the first signs of collapse, the Orcs who refused to leave their battle posts, still howling in rage. But they were few. The cowards ran, their pride shredded, leaving the rest of the Horde vulnerable.
The battle shifted, the momentum falling completely to the Alliance.
---
As the Skybreaker soared away, the Horde's lines were no longer an army—they were a disjointed, fleeing mass. Some orcs, trolls, and Forsaken remained, too bloodthirsty or too proud to run. But even they could see it: the end of the Horde's dream, and the loss of their Warchief.
In the chaos, many of the more reasonable races in the Horde began to retreat. Blood Elves, once proud and arrogant, now cast fearful glances back as they saw their forces disintegrate. Tauren, their solemn faces weathered, fell back from the line, protecting what remained of their warriors.
But the orcish grunts, the troll warriors, the Forsaken brutes, continued to charge headlong into the melee, even though the battle had been lost. They fought on as though nothing had changed, their rage unrelenting, their pride unbreakable.
But the tide had shifted, and the last true resistance crumbled.
---
The Alliance roared in triumph.
The Blood Legion, standing at the vanguard, lifted their blades high. They had broken the Horde's strongest force, crushed their ship, and shattered the heart of their leadership. They had won the field.
Varian Wrynn stood at the head of the charge, his sword gleaming. His eyes were still full of rage—rage that would not end with this victory, but it would feed his next move.
His voice rang out: "We've broken them. But we're not done yet. We march into Icecrown."
The remaining Alliance soldiers—those that had survived the carnage—rallied behind him. Their victory over the Horde had only made them more resolute in the face of the true evil they came here to face—the Lich King.
Their spirits were high, their anger still smoldering, and they marched forward into the dark heart of Icecrown Citadel.
---
The battlefield roared with chaos. Horde lines broke and scattered like leaves in a gale, and the cries of the dying mingled with the thunder of collapsing siege towers and the burning wreckage of Orgrim's Hammer.
But in the center of it all, one banner still stood.
Lady Liadrin, her crimson cloak torn and blood-slicked, sat tall upon her charger, defiance burning in her eyes. Her voice cracked through the freezing air as she tried to rally the last of the Blood Elves.
"With me! For Quel'Thalas! Hold your ground! Do not let these mongrels drive us from honor!"
Her men hesitated, many frozen by fear. But Liadrin stood her ground, golden armor gleaming faintly in the firelight, her blade held high with righteous fury.
And then the storm came.
Varian Wrynn.
The King of Stormwind tore through the haze like a force of nature, his armor drenched in blood, his eyes wild and bloodshot. There was nothing regal in his face now—no nobility, no mercy. Just hatred.
His mount had been slain earlier. He ran now, bare-chested beneath cracked plate, Shalamayne gripped in one hand, eyes locked on Liadrin like a predator seeing its next kill.
She turned too late.
He was already upon her.
Liadrin parried his strike, managing to knock Shalamayne from his grasp. Her blade slashed across his side, and for a moment she believed she had wounded him.
"You think this changes anything, knife-ear?" Varian spat, voice a guttural snarl. "You pointy-eared whores have bled this world dry for centuries."
He hurled himself at her, barehanded, with the fury of a man possessed.
"This is for Theramore. This is for Lordaeron. This is for every human you ever looked down on while your people licked the boots of demons!"
He grabbed her by the throat and ripped her from the saddle, slamming her onto the ground with bone-rattling force.
Liadrin rolled and swung her sword, but Varian caught her wrist mid-swing and drove his knee into her face. Bone cracked. Her sword fell.
"You call yourself a knight? You're just a gutterborn mage slut in armor!" he roared.
She coughed blood, trying to crawl backward.
"P—please..." she gasped, one eye already swollen shut. "I—I'm not your enemy..."
Varian's mouth twisted.
"You're an elf. That's enough."
He punched her. Again. Again.
Her nose shattered. Her cheek split. Her head bounced off the icy stone. She whimpered, her voice barely audible over the sound of flesh against bone.
"Stop… please... please…"
"Beg. Go on, beg like the dog your kind truly are."
Her voice was gurgling now—blood filling her throat. She tried to raise her hands, to pray, to plead. But she couldn't form the words. Her mouth opened. Only blood came out.
"This is mercy, elf. You should thank me."
Varian grabbed her hair, lifted her head—and brought it down on a stone with a sickening, wet crack.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Her skull gave way. Her face caved in. Her body twitched once, then stilled.
Varian stood over her, panting, his fists slick with gore.
He spat.
"Another golden bitch gone. One less parasite."
He picked up Shalamayne from the mud, wiped the blood from his gauntlets, and strode toward Icecrown—a king, but now only in name. Behind him, the tattered red banner of Silvermoon lay crumpled in the snow beside what was left of Lady Liadrin.
The Blood Elves fled without a word. Not in fear of the battle—but of him.
The battlefield burned.
The Horde was shattered. Orgrim's Hammer lay in ruin, split in two and scattered across the frozen plains like the broken carcass of a beast. The Horde ranks had crumbled. Their banners torn, their leaders dead or fled.
But one figure still stood.
Garrosh Hellscream.
Surrounded by the corpses of friend and foe, he staggered through the wreckage, face bloodied, one horn of his shoulder armor broken clean off. Gorehowl dripped with gore, its edge dulled by too many kills.
The Warchief was alone now. Not because he had no followers—but because he had killed anything that got close.
He roared toward the sky. "Come on then! You think this ends with fire and smoke? I'M NOT DONE YET!"
From across the battlefield, through the smoke and snow, came the answer.
Muradin Bronzebeard.
He emerged like a titan from the ash—his mail scorched, his hammer cracked, his beard soaked in blood. He moved with a limp, dragging one leg behind him, but his grip on his warhammer was firm.
His eyes were hollow. Not with fear—but with the kind of hate that festers over centuries. A hate born of genocide, betrayal, and the death of kin.
"Garrosh… you tusked bastard, you've done enough." His voice was low, gravel-coated.
Garrosh turned to face him. His grin cracked wide.
"And here I thought dwarves died with their forts. Come for another scar, stoneblood? I'll carve your heart out and drink from your beard."
Muradin spat. "You've got your father's face. But none of his soul."
That did it.
They charged.
The impact of their collision echoed like a siege hammer against steel. Garrosh swung Gorehowl in wild, vicious arcs, each one threatening to tear Muradin in half. The dwarf ducked low, countering with short, brutal strikes from his hammer—breaking ribs, denting armor, spraying blood.
No banter. No pause. Just violence.
Garrosh slammed Muradin against a shattered pillar, crushing the dwarf's side. Bone cracked. Muradin howled and headbutted him, breaking Garrosh's nose in a burst of crimson.
"That all you got, you honorless cur?! You call this a Warchief's strength?!"
"You're no warrior. You're a relic. A broken stone begging to be dust!" Garrosh roared, and with a brutal swipe, slashed Gorehowl across Muradin's chest.
Armor split. Blood poured.
Muradin dropped to a knee, breathing ragged.
Garrosh raised the axe for the finishing blow—
And Muradin caught it.
With one hand.
He rose, blood gushing from his wound, and with a scream torn from his soul, he slammed his warhammer into Garrosh's knee. Bone shattered. Garrosh dropped.
Another swing—into the jaw.
Another—into the shoulder.
Then he drove the hammer into Garrosh's face.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until the skull cracked.
Until the tusks broke.
Until the fire behind Garrosh's eyes flickered and died.
The Warchief collapsed, face caved in, twitching once, then still.
Muradin dropped to one knee beside the corpse, his hammer slipping from his blood-slicked fingers.
He clutched his side—his ribs shattered, lungs filling with blood.
"You… got what you wanted… monster," he whispered.
Above him, the wind howled.
Around him, the snow fell.
And behind him, the last survivors of the Alliance surged past, unaware that the dwarf who had just saved their flank would not live to see the summit.
Muradin Bronzebeard had won.
But the cost was everything.
The battle was over.
But the war was not.
The dead littered the steps behind them. Friends, legends, brothers-in-arms—heroes whose names would never be remembered, whose bodies would never be found. Blood had been spilled in rivers, the air still heavy with the stench of rot and frost. The Citadel had been carved open by fire, steel, and sacrifice—but at its peak, the heart of death still pulsed.
The final ascent began.
Only ten remained from the original ten thousand who had entered: the last of the Blood Legion—scarred, bleeding, half-limping, their armor cracked and dented, their banners gone, their faces hollow with exhaustion but not defeat.
Tirion Fordring led them, the highlord's silver armor scorched black in places, his left arm broken and bound in cloth and light magic. His grip on Ashbringer was firm, unwavering. The blade still glowed like a sunrise through a blizzard.
Beside him walked Bolvar Fordragon, still bleeding from wounds he had no time to treat. His shield was gone. His cape was torn. But his eyes were calm—calmer than they had been since the war began. This was the end. And he welcomed it.
None of them spoke as they climbed the final spire.
The wind screamed. The steps vibrated with unnatural power. Lightning cracked through the sky in ghostly arcs of blue and green, illuminating the path to death. The frost beneath their feet was so cold it burned. Their breath came in clouds of steam, fogging the glassy steps. Blood trailed behind them, drops freezing the moment they struck the ice.
At the summit stood the Frozen Throne.
A towering monument of jagged crystal and bone, its steps built from shattered souls and glacial stone. The Lich King—Arthas Menethil—sat motionless at its peak, encased in obsidian-black armor, his helm of domination glowing with runes etched in death. Frostmourne rested across his lap, silent, as if even the blade hungered for the final strike.
And beside him stood Sylvanas Windrunner.
She was cloaked in black. Her eyes glowed with spectral frost. Her face, once beautiful, was now a mask of cruelty and unwavering loyalty. She had not come here to be redeemed. She had not come to be saved. She had come to die beside the only soul who had ever understood her.
She looked down upon the approaching heroes—and smiled.
"So few," she murmured. "And yet so stubborn."
Tirion stopped at the foot of the stairs. The others formed a line behind him, ten strong, the last living barrier between Azeroth and death.
He raised Ashbringer—its golden light casting long shadows across the icy platform.
His voice was hoarse. Tired. But unbreakable.
"Arthas Menethil. For every soul you've stolen. For every kingdom you've destroyed. For every child turned into a monster… your time ends today."
Bolvar stepped forward. Blood dripped from his armor.
"We've come to finish this. Not for glory. Not for vengeance. For the living."
The Lich King said nothing. But the cold deepened. The wind stilled.
Then Arthas stood.
Frostmourne ignited with pale blue fire. The very throne behind him seemed to scream. His gaze swept across the broken survivors, and he spoke, his voice echoing with a thousand stolen souls.
"You have brought your final light into my kingdom of death. You will join them. All of you. And together, you will serve."
Sylvanas drew her blades.
Tirion lowered Ashbringer.
And the Blood Legion stepped forward.
No words.
No final speeches.
Only weapons drawn. Breath held. Teeth clenched.
Ten heroes. Two commanders.
And one king who would never kneel.
With the last of their strength, they charged.
And the final battle began.
---
The wind atop Icecrown was dead—unnaturally still, as if the world itself held its breath. Snow no longer fell. Even the stormclouds dared not encroach upon the throne of death.
The survivors stood in a half-circle at the summit of the Citadel. The ten remaining members of the Blood Legion—scarred, breathless, yet unbroken. Behind them stood Tirion Fordring, left arm bound and broken, yet still holding Ashbringer like a blade of judgment. Bolvar Fordragon stood at his side, flames leaking from his scorched armor, breath like smoke, eyes like embers.
The ground beneath their feet was black ice, cracked and etched with glowing runes of undeath. The edge of the platform dropped away into endless cloud and cold. There was no retreat. Only this.
At the far end stood the Lich King.
Arthas Menethil.
Enthroned in silence. Frostmourne rested lazily across his lap, pulsing with blue fire. His armor radiated frost. Soul energy shimmered in the air around him. He rose without a sound, each step cracking the floor beneath.
Beside him—Sylvanas Windrunner. Draped in black. Her face pale and unreadable. She didn't move. Didn't blink. Her presence was a wound upon the world.
Arthas lifted his head.
"You come, finally," he said, voice slow and quiet. "You crawl from the ruins of your hope. You bleed across my steps. And still, you think this is a battle."
His gaze swept over them—lingering on Tirion.
"This is a sentence."
Tirion stepped forward, each footfall echoing.
"We are not here to plead. We are not here to kneel." He raised Ashbringer, and its light cut through the gloom like a sunrise.
"We are here to end you."
Arthas regarded him. Then, with a faint smile, he whispered:
"Then come. Let the last breath of your world be spent here."
The silence shattered.
Tirion charged.
So did Camcorder and Bolvar, flanking him—one blazing with holy light, the other with dragonfire.
Moonray and Firestorm broke left, spells already charging. Capnslappy and Shadowstep vanished into the shadows, splitting wide to flank. Firstaidspec called on the Light to shield the rear, protected by Earthwarden and Stormshaman.
The ten did not hesitate.
Their blades were drawn. Their prayers whispered. Their souls steeled.
The final war had begun.
The platform cracked with every movement. As Tirion's blade rose to meet the Lich King's, the first collision of Ashbringer and Frostmourne ignited the sky. Light met shadow—two legacies forged in opposite fires—and the shockwave knocked ice and stone from the edges of the throne.
Arthas didn't stagger. He didn't recoil. He smiled.
> "The blade remembers you, Tirion. It remembers your fear."
Ashbringer flared again in defiance, driving the Lich King back a step. Camcorder was at Tirion's side now, shield up, blood running from a gash across his forehead. Bolvar came around from the right, his flame-carved sword glowing like a brand in the frostbitten dark.
Behind them, the Blood Legion scattered like wolves to the flanks. Firestorm and Moonray unleashed devastation—fel fire and pure arcane ripping into the frozen battlefield. Runes carved into the platform flared blue and cracked under the pressure. Earth groaned. The ice bled.
Then Frostmourne rose.
Arthas swept the sword high, and the world screamed.
A shockwave burst from him in all directions—a pulse of death magic that tore through body and soul alike. The runic pillars pulsed with dark lightning. The air thickened. The Light dimmed.
Camcorder took the hit full force. His shield shattered like glass, the metal warped and glowing as he was hurled back across the platform. He slammed into one of the rune pillars and dropped to his knees, gasping.
Firestorm froze in place mid-cast, his mouth open in a silent scream as a thread of his soul began to lift from his chest—Frostmourne's call dragging him into oblivion.
> "He's… pulling me—!" he choked, eyes wide with terror.
Moonray spun toward him, hands glowing with counter-magic. She dove forward, unleashing a surge of arcane force that shattered the soul thread like glass. Firestorm collapsed, coughing blood, but breathing.
Firstaidspec was already moving, dragging herself across the ice, golden light pooling in her hands as she began to heal.
But the damage was done.
Stormshaman had collapsed beside Earthwarden, who was now crippled—his leg mangled from the pulse. The druid roared in pain as Stormshaman tried to hold the spiritual barrier steady, blood running from both nostrils.
> "He… he's breaking the spirit world," Stormshaman gasped. "Even the ancestors can't reach us."
Sylvanas struck.
She emerged from shadow, her form now half-ghost, her eyes empty. She went straight for Firstaidspec again, her twin blades singing through the air.
But Shadowstep was there.
He intercepted mid-strike, parrying with both daggers, his body twisting through the air like smoke. Capnslappy appeared an instant later, burying a knife into Sylvanas's lower ribs. She hissed, whirled, and disappeared in a veil of banshee mist.
> "Keep her off the priest!" Shadowstep snarled, already vanishing again.
At the center, Tirion and Arthas clashed again. Each strike sent waves of pressure across the field. Frost formed at their feet. Ashbringer glowed with molten resolve. But the Lich King was gaining ground.
Tirion faltered. His left arm—a splinted mess—couldn't bear the recoil. Arthas brought Frostmourne down hard, slamming Ashbringer aside. Tirion fell to one knee, gritting his teeth.
Arthas raised his sword, calm and cold.
> "You burn bright, paladin. But you all burn out."
Then Bolvar was there.
He tackled Arthas with the full weight of his flame-infused body, shoulder driving into the death knight's chest. The impact shook the platform. Flames burst from Bolvar's armor as he pressed forward, shouting as he drove Arthas back three paces.
> "Back off, corpse-king!" he roared.
For a moment, the line held.
The Blood Legion regrouped behind the melee: Moonray dragging Firestorm to cover, Firstaidspec stitching flesh together with trembling hands, Earthwarden growling through pain as he conjured a wall of roots from the frozen ground. Arrowwind loosed a volley of glowing arrows into the air, each one crashing down around Arthas like meteors.
Camcorder stood again, shieldless, armor cracked—but eyes blazing.
They had survived the first wave.
But the Lich King had not yet begun.
He raised Frostmourne again.
The souls inside began to scream.
And the blade pulsed like a dying star.
The second storm was coming.
And it would be worse.
The first storm had passed.
But the air was colder now, as if the Frostmourne shockwave had scraped the very warmth from the world. The floor cracked beneath their boots. Bolvar stood smoking, Camcorder wounded, Tirion's shield arm hanging useless.
And in the smoke behind them… Sylvanas began to rise.
She pulled herself from the shattered ice beneath one of the runic pillars, her cloak in tatters, her armor blackened and torn. But her eyes—her eyes burned with something worse than pain.
They burned with liberation.
Her voice was low. Crooked with mockery.
> "So this is the great Light?
This is what you've brought to face death?"
She opened her arms—and let go.
Her body twisted unnaturally. Her flesh peeled back into smoke. Her jaw unhinged as a scream—no, a wail—tore loose from her soul. Her form exploded into incorporeal shadow, the banshee within clawing its way out.
She no longer walked. She floated, trailing wisps of soul-smoke behind her. Her face blurred between her old self and the horror she had become. Her scream tore through the battlefield, freezing air and snapping bone.
Moonray's wards shattered on contact. Earthwarden covered his ears, blood dripping from them.
Firestorm coughed up blood, clutching his chest.
Sylvanas passed through the air like a silent blade—and reappeared behind Firstaidspec.
Her daggers plunged forward.
But Shadowstep caught them mid-flight.
He stepped out of the mist like a phantom, steel meeting shadow.
Blades clashed in the air with such speed the sound came second. Sylvanas twisted and vanished again—reappearing at the far edge of the platform behind Firestorm, whose soul was still weak from earlier.
> "I'll silence this one myself," she whispered, raising her knives.
Then Moonray screamed her name.
> "Windrunner!"
A lance of arcane light blasted across the platform, slamming Sylvanas through the air and into a jagged pillar of frozen bone. Her form distorted mid-flight, banshee wails shrieking from her as she hit the pillar hard, leaving a smoking crater.
Before she could recover, Capnslappy dashed up from behind, leapt onto the fractured wall—and planted a rune-bomb beneath her cloak.
> "Surprise, banshee-bitch."
The explosion ripped across the platform.
Sylvanas screamed—not in fury this time—but in fear.
Her form burst outward, her banshee shape losing cohesion. Her bones twisted in the air like brittle branches in a storm.
She reappeared, broken and bleeding, humanoid again, her armor half-melted, her face burned black on one side.
She stumbled, coughing smoke.
> "No… no, I was chosen… I was…"
She turned toward Arthas, crawling across the broken stone.
> "Master… help me…"
But Arthas did not move.
He stared at her—expressionless.
And then, slowly, raised Frostmourne.
Sylvanas's eyes widened. She mouthed a word, perhaps please.
The sword fell.
And her soul was ripped away—consumed into the blade.
A silence followed. Cold. Awful.
The Blood Legion stood breathless. Firestorm collapsed. Firstaidspec wept openly.
Even the undead stilled.
Arthas turned back toward the survivors.
> "Loyalty… is not victory."
Frostmourne glowed brighter. The runes pulsed.
And then… the blade began to crackle.
Not with ice.
But with flame.
Bolvar stepped forward, fists clenched, the fire in him roaring.
> "Then let's test your loyalty… to pain."
The second round was coming.
And this time, someone would die.
The blade pulsed.
Frostmourne hummed with unnatural energy, flickering between pale blue and violent red. The runes along its length twisted, their glow erratic. A low sound emanated from it—not steel, not magic, but something deeper. A whisper that bled into a scream.
Arthas tightened his grip.
For the first time in the battle, the Lich King looked… uncertain.
---
POV: Arthas Menethil
Something was wrong.
The sword—his sword—burned. Not with Light. Not with fire. But with resistance.
It was speaking to him. No—they were.
> "You are not king."
"You are not master."
"You are nothing without us."
He staggered back a half-step.
> Sylvanas. Uther. Dranosh. Terenas…
They were inside Frostmourne, and now… they fought back.
---
Tirion Sees His Moment
Tirion felt it—the hesitation. The shiver in Arthas's stance. The flicker of pain in his eyes.
> "Now," he whispered.
Ashbringer lit up like dawn itself. The light burned white, wrapping around Tirion's shattered frame like armor made of hope.
He didn't run. He charged, one final time.
Arthas raised Frostmourne—
Too late.
Ashbringer slammed into the cursed blade.
There was no clang. No shatter.
There was detonation.
A pillar of golden light erupted into the sky, splitting the clouds. The runic platform cracked. Crystals shattered and flew in every direction. The throne behind them exploded in a storm of ice and soul-light.
Frostmourne broke.
Cracks tore through its edge and raced down the hilt like lightning through glass. Then it split in two.
---
The Soulstorm
From the sword's heart came screams—but not of pain.
Of release.
Thousands of souls burst free. Light and shadow spun together as the freed dead rose into the storm-choked sky—faint silhouettes of elves, humans, trolls, and tauren, all once consumed by the blade.
They did not weep.
They sang.
And at their head… a figure in golden robes.
---
Terenas Menethil – The Spirit of the King
He descended not like a ghost—but like a father.
His feet touched the stone.
He looked down at his son.
And he said nothing.
He turned to Bolvar's body, still smoldering from his last attack. Gently, reverently, he knelt, and placed a hand over Bolvar's blackened chest.
Light flared—and Bolvar gasped.
Fire reignited in his lungs. His body twitched. His eyes opened.
Terenas stood and moved to Firestorm, whose soul still flickered like a dying ember.
He touched the warlock's brow.
> "You have not earned rest yet."
Firestorm inhaled sharply, coughing smoke.
Terenas raised his arms.
And the ten Blood Legion heroes—all wounded, broken, barely standing—were restored.
Bones snapped back into place. Blood reversed its flow. Scars faded. Breath returned.
They stood whole once more.
---
Arthas Kneels
He dropped to one knee.
Frostmourne gone. His throne shattered. The Helm of Domination lay beside him, cold and silent.
For a moment, he looked small. Not a god. Not a king.
Just a man—ruined.
He looked up at Tirion.
> "Tell me… is there still a soul in me?"
Tirion didn't answer.
He lowered Ashbringer.
> "If there is… let the Light find it."
---
POV: The Blood Legion
They had died.
And yet here they stood.
Ten heroes reborn through flame and faith.
Firestorm exhaled, trembling.
Moonray lowered her staff, blinking back tears.
Camcorder rolled his shoulders. "Let's finish it."
Capnslappy muttered, "No more resurrections. This is it."
Firstaidspec pressed her hands together, silent.
Shadowstep simply vanished into the mist again.
Arrowwind nocked her last arrow.
Earthwarden stood, no limp in his stride.
Stormshaman whispered thanks to the wind.
They surrounded the Lich King.
---
Terenas
The king looked at them all, and finally spoke.
> "Strike true."
He faded into light.
---
The sky was split.
The light of Ashbringer still shimmered in the air, caught mid-swing above the kneeling form of Arthas Menethil. Tirion Fordring stood over him, broken arm trembling, blade poised. The world held its breath.
And then it happened.
From beneath the platform—deep below the cracked, cursed heart of Icecrown itself—came a low groan. Like something ancient and angry shifting in its sleep.
The ice bulged. Cracks raced outward across the obsidian surface. The center of the throne room began to rise.
Tirion's eyes widened. He turned his head just slightly.
> "No…"
Too late.
The ground exploded.
A monstrous claw, jagged and frostbitten, punched upward with such force that it launched Arthas's body backward and hurled Tirion across the platform like a ragdoll. Ashbringer flew from his hands, spinning into the dark.
A banshee wail unlike anything heard before tore through the Citadel, freezing blood in veins and hope in hearts.
Sindragosa had awoken.
She emerged not with grace, but with rage—shattering the stone platform from beneath, her skeletal wings unfurling in a hurricane of ice and shrieking wind. Fragments of the platform broke away and plunged into the abyss below.
The battlefield became a maelstrom.
---
Immediate Destruction
Tirion struck a broken column and slumped, unmoving.
Camcorder was caught in the blast and thrown against a runic pillar—his body folded, shield arm crushed.
Moonray, mid-cast, was impaled through the shoulder by flying debris and buried beneath collapsed ice.
Shadowstep attempted to vanish into the mist—only to reappear hanging off the edge, fingers gripping for life.
Earthwarden threw himself over Firstaidspec to shield her and was pierced through the thigh by a frozen shard.
Stormshaman was lifted and flung like a doll, disappearing into the white fog.
Capnslappy was slammed against a wall of ice, blood spilling from his mouth, eyes flickering.
Only four remained standing.
---
The Last Four Standing
1. Bolvar Fordragon
Covered in ash, his molten core flaring from beneath cracked armor. He planted his sword and rose into a partial guard, breathing fire between clenched teeth.
> "Get behind me!"
2. Firstaidspec
Shielded but rattled, crawling toward her staff, legs frozen, hands shaking from frostbite. Her eyes still searched for someone—anyone—to heal.
3. Firestorm
Covered in frost burns, face half-blackened. He gritted his teeth, clutching a final infernal stone in one shaking hand.
> "One… one more demon…"
4. Arrowwind
Perched atop a half-broken pillar near the rear, bow drawn. Her eyes never left the dragon.
> "Right between the ribs," she whispered.
---
Sindragosa Takes the Field
The frost wyrm let out a shockwave howl—a scream that split armor, ruptured eardrums, and shattered Light wards.
She was enormous. A monstrosity of bone and rage, at least 200 feet long. Her wings scraped the air like serrated sails. Her ribcage glowed with necromantic fire. Her breath was visible death.
She reared back and exhaled her frost breath across the field.
The ice beam struck the floor like a scythe, freezing everything it touched in solid crystal. Bolvar dove to shield Firstaidspec, his body flaring with heat, creating a wall of steam where the breath met his flame.
Arrowwind loosed arrow after arrow—each one striking with perfect accuracy, but bouncing off ribs and ancient bone.
Firestorm summoned his infernal and hurled it toward her face.
The demon struck her jaw—and detonated in flame.
She roared. Her skull cracked. One horn was blown away—but she was not slowed.
She charged.
Her claws crushed the platform. Ice splinters shot outward. The platform trembled. The Blood Legion was scattered. Most had already fallen. And now—
The last four prepared to die.
Bolvar stood alone at the center, flaming sword ready.
> "Come on then," he whispered. "Let's burn together."
Finale – Part 7: The Last Stand
The platform was a ruin.
Half of it had crumbled into the abyss. The throne was gone, shattered and scorched. Runes once etched in control now flickered chaotically across the broken stone. Frost hung in the air like suspended death.
At the center of the devastation stood Sindragosa—her wings spread wide, her skeletal form glowing with necrotic rage. Her breath chilled the marrow. Her presence silenced prayer.
She had become the last vengeance of the Lich King.
The last four stood in defiance.
---
1. Bolvar Fordragon – The Burning Wall
He stood at the center, sword buried in the stone, flames leaking from every crack in his blackened armor. His face, once noble, was now a mask of ember-lit ash.
His voice came low, guttural.
> "She dies… or we do."
He braced himself and raised his sword to the sky, drawing in fire—not from the world, but from within. His lungs burned. His blood boiled. But still, he stood.
---
2. Firstaidspec – The Last Light
On her knees, blood running from her nose, lips cracked from the cold. Her hands trembled as she summoned what little Light remained.
> "Don't let it end like this…"
Her power flickered, muted by the frost aura. But she whispered prayers anyway, not for herself—but for the fallen. For Camcorder. For Tirion. For the thousands buried beneath the ice.
---
3. Arrowwind – The Final Shot
Perched on a crumbling pillar, ice biting into her thighs, she drew one last arrow. A black-fletched shaft etched with silver runes. Her breath came slowly, evenly, despite the chaos.
Her voice was calm.
> "Right between the ribs…"
She waited. She watched. She breathed in her final breath of stillness.
---
4. Firestorm – The Martyr Pyromancer
His skin was blistered. His robe clung to a body wracked with burn and frost. But his eyes blazed with hatred. He coughed blood and laughed.
> "I always said I'd go out hot."
He began to chant in Eredun, calling fire into his very marrow.
> "One more infernal. Just one more…"
His fingers lit with flame.
---
Sindragosa Attacks
She roared and slammed her claws into the platform. Ice exploded outward in waves, freezing the air and shattering stone.
Firstaidspec was buried beneath a chunk of falling ice.
Arrowwind loosed her final arrow—perfect. It struck Sindragosa's exposed eye socket and embedded deep. The wyrm howled, staggering back.
Firestorm screamed and completed his spell.
> "DIE WITH ME!"
He launched himself forward in a blaze of fel fire. His body became the vessel.
The impact was cataclysmic.
The fireball engulfed Sindragosa's face, neck, and half of her torso. Bone melted. Ice cracked.
Firestorm's body was gone—vaporized.
---
Sindragosa reeled.
Half-blinded, smoking, she turned to crush Bolvar once and for all.
But he was already there.
He leapt into the air, sword raised overhead, body alight.
> "FOR THE LIVING!"
He brought his blade down into her neck with both hands.
The steel broke through vertebrae, cutting deep.
Her wings flailed. Her head twisted. And with one final, soul-chilling shriek—
Sindragosa fell.
She crashed into the shattered platform and slid over the edge.
Her body disappeared into the clouds below.
And then… silence.
---
Bolvar dropped to one knee, smoke rising from his back.
Arrowwind collapsed against a shattered column, breath heaving.
Firstaidspec, buried beneath a slab of ice, reached out with trembling fingers—alive, but fading.
The wind was still. The cold… eased.
And nearby, crumpled and broken, Arthas Menethil lay in the snow, unmoving.
---
The battlefield was quiet.
Not silent—but quiet, in the way battlefields get when the killing is done. Snow drifted gently through the broken air, melting before it touched the scorched stone. Ash floated like dust motes in the weak sunlight piercing the clouds.
The corpse of Sindragosa had vanished into the abyss, leaving behind only shattered stone and shattered warriors.
And there—at the broken center of the platform, where a throne once stood—
Lay Arthas Menethil.
---
POV: Arthas
He could not feel his body.
He heard the wind, distant and dull, like a memory of a storm.
Pain was gone. Power—gone too.
He could see the Helm of Domination lying in the snow just beyond his reach, its runes dim, its voice quiet for the first time in years. Frostmourne was gone, reduced to shards now dusted with frost and blood.
His hand twitched, reaching for the helm.
But he could not move.
Footsteps approached—measured, heavy, righteous.
---
Tirion Fordring
He limped forward, supported by Camcorder, who had clawed his way free from the rubble. Tirion's armor was scorched. His face pale. But Ashbringer was whole, and still glowed faintly in his grip.
He knelt beside the fallen king.
Arthas turned his head, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
His voice cracked.
> "Is it… over?"
Tirion said nothing.
He simply watched him.
---
And then it came. A light—soft, golden, gentle—descending not from heaven, but from memory.
A spectral figure took shape beside them.
Cloaked in royal robes. Crownless. Hands folded.
Terenas Menethil.
He looked down at his son. There was no anger in his face. No joy. Just sorrow.
> "You gave everything… and lost yourself."
Arthas's eyes welled—not with tears, but with understanding.
> "I only… wanted to protect them. I didn't… mean…"
Terenas shook his head slowly.
> "It is not your place to be forgiven, my son."
He knelt. Placed a hand on Arthas's chest.
> "But you will not die alone."
---
Arthas's fingers curled into the snow.
His voice was a whisper.
> "I see… only darkness before me."
Terenas exhaled.
> "Then let me carry your light."
Arthas's eyes dimmed.
His body went still.
And then—he was gone.
No flash. No scream. Just… stillness.
---
Terenas stood.
He turned to Tirion and the Blood Legion survivors—Camcorder, Firstaidspec, Arrowwind, and any others who still drew breath.
> "The Scourge is broken. But the dead must be watched."
He looked down at the Helm of Domination.
Then—to Bolvar.
Bolvar, charred and silent, knelt beside it. He picked it up in both hands. Its weight seemed heavier than the world.
> "I will become the jailer. Seal this evil. And be forgotten."
Tirion tried to object—but Bolvar stopped him with a look.
He placed the helm upon his brow.
A ripple of dark light burst outward.
When it faded, the Lich King stood again.
But his voice was no longer Arthas's.
> "Go. Tell them the Lich King is no more. And never let another wear this crown."
---
The remaining survivors turned away from the throne.
They walked down the shattered spire.
Leaving behind a broken crown, a burning guardian, and the ghosts of a thousand sins.
Above them, the sky cleared.
And for the first time in years…
Icecrown knew silence.
---