Arthas threw open the doors to his father's throne room. The King's Guard inside didn't so much as flinch as the mighty doors thrashed against the wall, the sound echoing through the open chamber over the ringing of bells and joyous crowds beyond the palace's walls. They lined the streets and boulevards hoping to catch a glimpse of their returning prince, victorious against the forces of darkness that sought to destroy them.

How foolish they are.

Without breaking stride, Falric and Marwyn took their places beside their prince as he knelt before his father's throne.

"Ah, my son. I knew you would be victorious," his father rose from the throne and greeted him.

Yet as he spoke, whispers through his runeblade spoke to Arthas.

It was time.

"This is a glorious day, for not only yourself, but-"

"You no longer need to sacrifice for your people," he interrupted his father's congratulations. "You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown. I've taken care of everything."

Arthas rose to his feet and dropped his hood, showing his father his changed visage. His formerly wheat golden hair bleached of all color and his skin as pale as the corpses he marched against; and who now march beside him.

Blade drawn, he marched to his father, his own guards moved in opposite directions to intercept the King's Guard who rushed to place themselves between the father and son. Ignoring the sound of steel clashing against steel, he reached his father at the foot of the throne. Grabbing the elderly king, he pulled him close.

"My son?" His father attempted to step back, but was held in place by his son's grip "….w-what are you doing?"

"Succeeding you, father," Arthas plunged Frostmourne into his father, ending the man's reign and heralding the beginning of a new dark age for Lordaeron.

Or that is what should have happened.

Rather than drink of his father's soul, the runeblade harmlessly passed through the old king's abdomen and hit the throne behind him. It didn't cut through flesh, bone, or sinew, but carved through air itself. Motes of magic 'bled' from the king's wound.

The 'king' looked to his 'wound', the blade still phased through him, a thousand expressions played out across his wrinkled face. Fear. Anxiety. Surprise. Betrayal. Shame.

But as the man looked over to the deaths of his King's Guard, these eventually gave way to one singular expression: resignation.

"I-I…" the man was seemingly at a loss for words at the attempted regicide. "I…I had hoped they were wrong. Prayed they were wrong."

Before he could question him any further, his 'father' disappeared in a mist of bright motes, finery and all. Only the crown remained where his father once stood, the bejeweled circlet bouncing down the steps of his throne, gems chipping off along the way.

A magical projection, Artrhas realized with a sullen expression. It would seem his loyalty was in doubt long before he returned from Northrend. So much for a joyous reunion.

In his musings, the last of the King's Guard were cut down.

Still, who were the 'they' his father spoke of?

Uther?

Jaina?

Some wretch from among the faceless masses?

And where was his father hiding?

He did not have long to think on the issue.

A loud crack of a rifle from above was followed by a sharp force hitting the fallen prince's back. While the bullet failed to penetrate his new armor, the sheer force of impact sent the prince forward a step.

Then there was another crack.

And another.

And another.

Turning around, he saw several gunners along the balconies above. Where various dignitaries once sat during council meetings, now gnomish and dwarven gunners leveled their rifles at the fallen prince and his undead guards.

Crack.

Crack.

They assailants fired upon Falric and Marwyn, their shots ringing off the risen men's armor.

A pair of dwarfs leaned over the balcony of one of the seats just above Arthas and shot at him once again. They used heavier slugs than the others, but it still failed to penetrate his armor.

Snarling, the fallen prince leveled his blade at the gunners and sent bolts of death magic screeching towards the boxes above. Each exploding in a shower of necrotic energy.

One.

Two.

Four.

Six.

The balconies were destroyed one by one, their occupants crashing onto the marble floor below one after another. Misty motes of death magic still clinging to their lifeless bodies.

But just as Arthas dispatched the last of them, the chamber doors flew open with enough force to break them off their hinges. More figures flooded into the throne room: archers, mages, footmen, more gunners, priests, and at their head was a single paladin of the Silver Hand.

The fallen prince took one look at the force assembled before him and felt insulted.

Not that force was being brought to bear against him, he had already made plans to carve his way through the city and wade through the blood-soaked streets. What infuriated him was that his father, or Uther, or Jaina, or someone had learned of his plans yet THIS was the force they believed was capable of stopping him?

Some unremarkable mob led by an unremarkable paladin? Did his father and Uther truly think such a pathetic force would even slow him? Was he looked at as so insignificant that the Silver Hand refused to send a paladin of note to try and slay him?

"To believe that one of our own has fallen so low," the lead paladin finally spoke, looking over the fallen prince, narrowing his eyes, and leveling a mighty hammer at him.

"Ah, a paladin of the Silver Hand, as self-righteous as ever I see," regarded the trio, ignoring the rabble behind them. "And just as foolish, if Uther and my father thought that you alone would be powerful enough to stop me."

"They assumed you weren't a traitor who had sold out his kingdom to demons and necromancers. Clearly, they placed too much faith in you."

"Even more in you, it seems, if you think you're going to stop me," Arthas watched the crowd behind the paladin look upon him, and the grisly scene around him, with fear and disgust.

"I have to ask, was it worth it?" the leader questioned, narrowing his gaze at the death knight. "The price you paid, was it worth whatever foul power you have now? You look like the undead you claimed to have sailed north to destroy. Tell me, boy, is there even a shred of humanity left in you?"

"I would hope not," Arthas chuckled at the paladin's furious expression to his truthful answer. "In Northrend, I gave up everything that weakened me, that held me back, so I could attain power beyond imagining. So, I assure you if there is any humanity left in me, it's not by choice. And for the record, it's considered disrespectful not to kneel before a king."

"You're no king, traitor," the paladin spat out the last word as if it were a curse.

"I may have given up my humanity, but I never gave up my birthright," a twisted grin came to the death knight's lips. "I am the rightful king of Lordaeron, if not by law and blood, then certainly by conquest."

"Even if you weren't a madman, is your mind truly so far gone that you'd think anyone in this kingdom would ever serve a monster like you?"

"Perhaps not in life, but certainly in death," he angled Frostmourne towards the corpses of the King's Guard, channeling its power to raise the men into undeath. Gasps echoed from the paladin's force as the dead men rose to their feet and retrieved their weapons. "See. Died for one king, yet rose for another."

The paladin was silent for a moment at the display of necromancy, then a sigh as he reached for his holy book. "I wonder what sort of hell is reserved for monsters like you," a holy aura enveloped the paladin, cloaking him in Light as much as he was already cloaked in self-righteousness.

"I doubt I'll ever know", Arthas readied his blade, "I plan to live forever."

"No, you die here, monster!" the paladin charged Arthas.

Arthas easily parried the strike, as well as the next one that came from the side. However, in such close proximity to the paladin, the Light glistening across the paladin's form burned the death knight's flesh. As he blocked and traded blows, the others fought with his servants.

"You will fall by my hand, traitor!" the paladin roared out as he swung his hammer again and again, the prince parrying and avoiding each potential strike. "And once you're dealt with, I will shatter that accursed demon blade and free the world from its corruption. Never again will any soul fall to its baleful influence!"

He didn't correct the paladin's claim of his runeblade's origins, or question how he knew the blade's connection to the Lich King, merely grinning at the man's bravado.

"If you wish for Frostmourne, then you shall have it," it was time to end this farce of a duel.

Closing the distance between them, dodging a swing from taking his head, he drove Frostmourne through the paladin's chest. Carving through his plate with the ease of cutting a cake, the fool could no doubt feel his very soul being ripped from his flesh by the ever-gluttonous blade.

The death knight kicked the husk off his blade, the empty husk slid across the marble floor to the silent shock of those he once led. To their credit, no one broke ranks at the sight of dead Silver Hand. They readied their weapons and renewed their charges in short order.

How accommodating.

After all, Frostmourne still hungered….

"I believe that is enough, your-"

"No, keep the image up," Terenas ordered his court mage.

"Your Majesty, there is no need to…" the mage's words died on his tongue as Sir Uther placed a hand on the man's shoulder and shook his head.

"I command you to keep the image projected," Terenas would not be talked out of this. "I will watch until the end."

The mage, realizing there was no room for compromise, bowed and left the King and his companion to their silent vigil: the death of a city.

He refused to believe it when he was first told. Shouted at Arch Mage Antonidas that he was wrong, that his son would never fall to corruption and madness. That he would never turn his back on humanity itself.

It wasn't until Uther himself spoke up, adding his voice to the Arch Mage's that the king relented and gave into their wishes.

Precautions were to be taken in the unlikely event that any of what Antonidas claimed was true.

Terenas had left the city with Calia three days before his son's return under the strictest of secrecy. His daughter parted with him to race to Southshore with some King's Guard to see her husband and child. The King himself rallied to the slowly massing army of Lordaeron in the south of the kingdom.

To keep up the illusion that all was well, his court mage conjured a magical projection that Terenas himself controlled so he could continue to attend to matters of court. Should his son return and all be well, as it should have been, he would explain away this deception by claiming illness had left him bedridden. It was hardly the first time this act had been done.

And if any questioned why an army was gathering in the south at all, a story could be easily fabricated about sending aid to rebel elements in Gilneas left outside of Greymane's Wall, or preparing a host to root out the last of that Cult of the Damned that had borrowed itself into the kingdom.

None would be the wiser, and then this matter of treason could be put to rest.

Alas, reality is hardly so generous. While he felt no pain when his son showed his true colors, the intent cut deeper than anything that cursed blade could have.

The image was akin to a projected illusion, as the mage told his king. Projecting events from far away in a way not unlike a moving picture of light. While he no longer was able to hear anything before him, his own projected form shattering to his son's evil blade, one hardly needed to know how to read lips to understand what was occurring.

He watched his son kill the last of the Silver Hand's troops, as he raised them into undeath, then marched them against the people of Lordaeron itself. Crowds filled with joyous citizens were cut down one after another as those monsters spread out into the city proper.

"I'm a failure," those were the only words King Terenas Menethil could utter as he watched Arthas slaughter all in his path, his host growing with every corpse as Lordaeron burned. What haphazard defenses were raised against them were quickly swept aside. None had expected an attack from within the city! With every death, the horde at his son's command grew.

The other occupant of the royal tent made his presence known, placing a hand upon the old king's shoulder.

"You did everything you could, your majesty" Uther counseled, though the man's voice was steady, the sights before him affected him as well.

"Did I?" Terenas let out a humorless laugh. "Did I have the coastal batteries fire upon his ship when it returned? Drive him into the sea when he set foot on land? Did I have him brought to me in chains? Or did I roll out a carpet so my son could try to kill me and put the kingdom to the torch at the head of an undead army? An army made of my people…"

"What father wants to hear his son seeks to murder him?" The Lightbringer countered. "What king wants to hear his heir has sold his soul to monsters?"

"A wiser father than I am," he never looked away from the slick red. "And a greater king then I will ever be."

"If there is someone to blame for Arthas's fall, it's me," Uther urged him. "I saw the signs, the darkness growing in his heart as he pursued the Cult of the Damned. I just…I just never thought he would fall in such a manner."

"And what could you have done Uther?"

"I could have taken him into custody, I could have taken him away from this damned plague, the undead and those demons and…. And anything!"

After the paladin's lamentation, two men stood silently and watched as the undead swarmed the last of the hastily erected barricades, their sheer numbers like that of water breaking against it. Terenas was silently thankful there was no sound. He doubted he could keep himself together if he had to hear the last cries of innocent people being slaughtered like cattle.

"A thousand pardons, your majesty, my lord," the messenger entered, glancing at the silent horror on display and bowed before the pair, "I bring word from Dalaran: King Bronzebeard has arrived alongside High Tinker Mekkatorque. Their respective vanguards have also arrived and are integrating themselves with the main Alliance force."

"Good, good," Teranas commented, finally tearing himself from the scenes of death unfolding in Lordaeron to focus on other matters. "What of Kul Tiras?"

"Admiral Proudmore has sent word that his fleet has already set sail to hold the coastlines and prevent any undead reinforcements from Northrend from arriving. Additionally, the first marine detachments will arrive at Menethil Harbor to join the main force within the fortnight."

"Good," the king nodded. "And Stormwind?"

The courier cleared his throat, "King Wyrnn has pledged the support of Stormwind to the Alliance war effort. The first footmen and knights will arrive via the underground tram and march with the main dwarven force. However, domestic issues prevent his majesty from bringing the kingdom's full might to bear against the undead."

"What issues- oh yes, that matter with the Stonemasons," Terenas had read reports of unrest in the southernmost kingdom. Dry coffers, workers demanding payment, and Stormwind's House of Lords refusing to budge on the matter. "How much has the situation deteriorated? I had heard some progress was being made."

"Rioting has broken out in the city," the courier replied. "While attempting to placate the masses, her majesty, Queen Tiffin was struck in the head by a stray rock. The last word our ambassador sent implied blood was pooling too quickly in her skull for the healers to do anything."

Terenas shook his head at the news, silently cursing if the world had taken enough from the poor boy. First his family, then his city, now his wife. Yet the timing of such civil disobedience, on a scale to paralyze a whole kingdom, was almost timed too well to be considered spontaneous….

Hmm, yet another matter to consider in time, the king reasoned.

"Send my condolences to King Wyrnn. And inform him that while I understand the situation he is facing, any aid he can spare is appreciated."

"As you say, your majesty."

"Now what of the others? Stromgarde, Gilneas, and Quel'Thalas. Have we received word on how their kings answered my call to arms?"

"We have, your majesty," he shifted through more of his papers. "Emissary Galen has written that great progress has been made with his counterpart in Stromgarde. He believes that given a few more weeks of negotiations, and the proper incentives, there will be enough support amongst the nobility that the kingdom will once more march beneath the Alliance banner."

A few weeks. It took all of Terenas's energy to not make a sour face at the news. The more people die, the larger the undead host will grow. In a few weeks, there might not even be a kingdom to defend.

"But what of Gilneas and Quel'Thalas?"

"King Greymane has ignored all summons and refused our emissary's right to even enter the kingdom. However, we have received a reply from the king of the high elves." The courier handed the old king a pair of sealed letters. One bearing the seal of the elven kingdom, the other of Lordaeron's ambassador in Silvermoon.

Terenas opened the elven note first, frowning as he read the curt message from the elven king.

"Bad news?" Uther noticed the look on his king's face.

"King Anasterian sends us his deepest regards for the coming conflict," the king handed the paladin the note to see the ridiculousness for himself. "He also writes that he knows that we shall stand strong in the face of the Scourge spreading across our lands, and urges us to steel ourselves for the coming darkness."

"This is….I…" Uther was at a loss for words, scarcely believing the ink before his eyes. "Does the King of the High Home plan to send, or do, anything of actual substance?"

"Apologies Sir Uther, but I do not know," the courier replied. "This was the only reply we received from the Convocation and his majesty."

"And the ambassador's note?" Uther noticed the seal of the other letter.

"More hopeful," Terenas skimmed passed the flowery language to the meat of his emissary's missive. While the king and the magisters were fine to put their heads in the sand and ignore the monstrosities clawing at their borders, this sentiment was not universal. Many factions were prepared to pledge their support.

For instance, there was an assortment of minor magisters and landed elite who were offering their personal forces and retinues to the Alliance cause. But as these were minor families, the force they could bring numbered just under three thousand strong. Additionally, bands of elven mercenaries and adventurers had been arriving at the embassy offering their services for the coming conflict. For a price, of course.

Most substantial of these factions inside that isolated kingdom was the Church in Silvermoon. High Priest Vandellor has pledged the full support of Quel'Thalas Church of the Holy Light for the war effort. An expeditionary force of knights, paladins, mages, and priests were preparing to join the main Alliance host in Dalaran. And once his own affairs have been put in order, the High Priest would personally arrive to take charge of the Church's forces.

While most of his aid was at least a month away, the first priests and supplies would be arriving within the week.

It's a start, Teranas mused.

"Forgive me, your Majesty, but it's time," a royal mage entered the tent, bowing to his monarch. "The Council of Six are expecting you shortly to chair the war summit in Dalaran."

Ah yes, the very meeting King Borznebeard and the High Tinker arrived for. While they would return to their respective domains following the summit, certain information needed to be shared with as many leaders as possible to the true nature of their foes.

That the undead were merely a precursor of even worse nightmares on the horizon.

"Very good then," Terenas turned to Uther, "I leave the army in the hands of you and your knights, Sir Uther. Protect as many of our people as you can, counter the Scourge's spread as best you can, but avoid any decisive battles until the main Alliance force has rallied to us. I refuse to feed the horde's numbers piecemeal."

"Of course, your majesty," Uther nodded, giving the king a forced smile. "We will try to keep our heroics to an acceptable minimum."

"I have no doubt," Terenas chuckled at Uther's attempt at levity.

Leaving Uther to the matters of command, Terenas readied himself for the matters of state. Taking a deep breath, Terenas projected the mask of a ruler who was calm and collected. A king who, while angered and horrified by the events unfolding, nonetheless showed no sign of giving into despair.

That Lordaeron would fight on until the bitter end.

For the Alliance.

For humanity.

For the Light.

For decency itself.

At least, Terenas hoped that was what the men around him saw as he exited his royal tent to the portal his telemancers had readied.

AN: And so the Third War begins in earnest. The City of Lordaeron has fallen, the King still lives, Uther leads the royal army for the time being as the Alliance is mobilizing, and the elves keep being elves (proud and useless) in the midst of an undead apocalypse brewing right on their border.

Things have certainly changed. But will it be enough?