Abandoning one's homeland tears at the very soul—a primal agony that no mortal can escape.
This torment burns within every human heart across all realms and ages, an unquenchable fire of longing.
The earth births not only flesh and bone, but the deepest pangs of the spirit itself.
Duke grasped this anguish that consumed his Lordaeron soldiers, yet as both commander and accursed prophet who glimpsed the threads of fate, he knew with brutal clarity what horrors must unfold.
The tragedy had already begun its bloody dance—he could only watch it spiral into greater madness and devastation.
That cursed evening brought tidings that chilled his bones to ice.
The Scourge had indeed struck with the fury of a thousand demons across multiple fronts, for Lordaeron's flesh was already rotting from within, poisoned by the Cult of the Damned's insidious tendrils. The most damning report struck him thunderbolt: throughout Tirisfal Glades, more than ten townships had been systematically butchered by traitorous lords who had sold their souls to the Cult. These damned wretches had corrupted wells with liquid death and tainted grain stores with putrid plague, slaughtering tens of thousands of innocents and raising them as shambling horrors.
Combined with the unstoppable Scourge army that had burst forth from Lordaeron City's shattered gates, most of Tirisfal Glades now writhed under undead dominion.
Yet amid this apocalyptic nightmare, one beacon of hope blazed forth.
The emergency evacuation drills that Duke had orchestrated years prior now proved their worth in blood and salvation. His chief steward Makaro had executed a masterful gambit, using Lake Lordamere's treacherous waters to spirit away nearly 100,000 Lordaeron citizens from certain doom. The cunning bastard had even deployed his rear fleet as sacrificial bait, deceiving Arthas into believing all refugees had fled south toward Dalaran's towers.
In truth, the vast tide of humanity had swept around Fenris Island in Lake Lordamere's heart, then plunged westward into the shadowed depths of Silverpine Forest, finally reaching the North Coast where they now awaited deliverance from their nightmare.
This clever deception explained why old Antonidas wore death's own scowl upon his weathered face—the ancient mage was convinced that Duke's agents had betrayed Dalaran's secrets, else why would Arthas's undead legions have descended upon the magical city with such vicious precision?
The elder had failed to corner even a single Dreadlord during his futile pursuit. Upon his bitter return, he declared that Dalaran would focus solely on purging the undead filth from their sacred grounds, and the stubborn fool refused to grant Duke even a moment's audience.
However, at least the old goat agreed to dispatch two full mage regiments to join the unholy alliance between the Scarlet Crusade under Kael'thas and Duke's forces.
Including Dalaran's Guardian Mage Corps Infantry Regiment, Duke now commanded a formidable host of 100,000 souls ready for war.
Duke seethed with rage at Antonidas's insulting refusal, yet could only swallow this bitter draught of humiliation. History had taught him that Antonidas grew more pig-headed with each passing year, and in his dotage became as catastrophically incompetent as Terenas himself.
Kael'thas practically vibrated with excitement at the prospect of commanding troops on foreign soil.
"Duke! Grant me your wisdom in this campaign. I shall follow your every command without question!"
Duke nodded, accepting the young prince as his blood brother in this dance of death.
For the direction of his 100,000-strong army, Duke finally chose to shadow the orcs' path, though his target was not the South Coast but the North Coast instead. First, over 300,000 desperate refugees had gathered there with pitifully few soldiers to shield them from slaughter. Second, Duke genuinely feared attempting passage to Stratholme through the Alterac Mountains' deadly embrace.
In those towering peaks and knife-edge ridges, human battle formations became utterly worthless jokes. In such brutal terrain, you wouldn't need ten million undead—a mere 500,000 skeletons could rain down from the mountainsides at will, dragging screaming soldiers into the abyss below. No matter how elite Duke's warriors were, they would be ground to bloody paste in those stone jaws.
Humans lacked the undead's immortal endurance, and even the most legendary soldiers would eventually collapse from exhaustion. That night, Duke forced his army to rest, knowing they would need every ounce of strength for the battles ahead.
Duke himself had to ride through the darkness to South Sea City-State, for the sky above Dalaran churned with the Undead Sky's malevolent presence, strangling all magical communication. Only in South Sea City-State could Duke pierce the veil and speak with other kingdoms.
Meanwhile, in another realm of suffering...
Arthas writhed in his own personal hell.
His soul felt shattered into a thousand screaming fragments, each one howling in different agony.
When consciousness finally clawed back to him, he found himself standing once again where he had commanded millions of undead—the blood-soaked suburbs of Lordaeron City.
At last he recognized his supposed savior's twisted features.
The dreadlord Tichondrius bore an uncanny resemblance to the despised Mal'Ganis—equally venomous in tongue and black in heart, yet somehow even more contemptuous toward Arthas.
Instinctively, Arthas raised his shattered right hand that clutched Frostmourne, supporting it with his trembling left.
"Relax, I'm not here to destroy you," Tichondrius drawled, his lips curling into what might have been a smile but looked more like a predator baring fangs. "Though don't expect comfort from me, whelp. Yes, you murdered your own father and served his kingdom to the Scourge on a silver platter—you've passed the first trial. The Lich King finds you... adequate. But look at this pathetic display!"
Arthas remained silent, rage building within him.
"You still cling to these disgusting human emotions! They make you completely incapable of wielding Frostmourne's true power! Revolting! Absolutely revolting!"
Two warring storms crashed through Arthas simultaneously—crushing shame and volcanic rage.
"Yes!" he snarled, fighting to keep his voice steady before this supreme demon. "I have failed! I could not purge the people and memories I once cherished. I am sick with regret for my weakness. I burn with humiliation at my defeat by Edmund Duke!"
"Excellent!" The Dreadlord's grin widened, pleased by this display of raw honesty.
"Next time! Next time I will tear Duke limb from limb! I'll trap his screaming soul within Frostmourne's ice! He'll know eternal torment! And I'll slaughter Jaina too—transform her into a wailing banshee!"
But even as these words poured from his lips, another voice whispered from his heart's deepest chamber, not from Frostmourne: Liar! You could never bring yourself to harm Jaina!
Inexplicably, savage envy consumed him as he thought of Duke possessing Jaina completely, even during his own cursed absence.
He knew with crystal clarity that a true Death Knight should feel nothing.
Yet the emotions raged beyond his control.
He crushed them down brutally.
Yes! That treacherous voice would eventually be silenced forever. He couldn't endure the warmth that bloomed whenever Jaina's image crossed his mind. If he allowed it to flourish, it would spread through him and devour everything that remained.
The Dreadlord pretended not to witness this internal war, instead leering with malicious glee. "No need for such haste, my impatient Death Knight. Perhaps Edmund Duke will serve you well... as a lich. However, the Lich King grows weary of your pitiful weakness. I offer you one chance to become stronger—to channel more of Frostmourne's devastating power!"
"Speak! I obey!" Arthas declared with iron resolve.
"Uninvited vermin have dared to invade your throne chamber—they seek to defile your father's sacred remains! Go forth and annihilate them! Succeed in this slaughter, and greater power shall be yours!" With those words, the Dreadlord placed his clawed hand upon Frostmourne, and Arthas gasped as the cursed blade's energy surged through him, mending his broken flesh with supernatural speed.