DISCLAIMER:
I don't own either World of Warcraft and subsequent IP or any of G.R.R. Martin's works.
The days had blurred into weeks, each one a monotonous crawl through an endless winter. Joan moved with purpose but without destination, her glowing blue eyes scanning the vast white wilderness for signs of life or landmarks that might offer clues about her new world. She was a lone figure in blackened saronite armour, her runeblade strapped across her back, its faint hum a constant reminder of the dark power she wielded. The only companion she tolerated was the porcelain doll perched on her shoulder.
The northern expanse stretched endlessly before her, a realm as desolate as the Maw but without its overwhelming despair. It was cold, brutal, and indifferent. Yet Joan found herself strangely attuned to it. The frost here resonated with her, as though the land itself recognised her mastery over ice and death. She had used the time to test the limits of her magic, blending the frost mastery she once honed as an archmage in Dalaran with the necromantic powers that had been seared into her soul as a Death Knight. It had not been easy; the magical laws of this world were different, sluggish in their response, as though the land resisted her efforts. But Joan was nothing if not persistent.
Snowstorms came and went, their fierce winds howling like tortured spirits. Joan pressed on, her saronite boots crunching through the ice-encrusted snow, each step an act of defiance against the elements. Her undead body did not tire in the conventional sense, but the sheer monotony of the journey tested even her considerable resolve. She began to wonder if the northern reaches were as endless as they seemed or if she was simply wandering in circles. Xal'atath, ever the observer, offered no answers, only cryptic remarks that stoked her curiosity and unease in equal measure.
"What do you hope to find out here, Joan?" the doll asked one evening, her amethyst eyes gleaming with malevolent curiosity. "Civilisation? Redemption? Or are you simply running from the truth of what you are?"
Joan stopped, her grip tightening on the hilt of her runeblade. "I'm not running from anything," she replied curtly. "I'm searching for answers."
The doll's porcelain face twisted into a mockery of a smile. "Answers, yes. But answers lead to more questions. And those questions often lead to truths you're not prepared to face."
Joan ignored her, resuming her march through the snow. She had long since learned not to engage with Xal'atath's provocations unless absolutely necessary. The doll was a companion of sorts, but one she could never fully trust. Its motivations were its own, and Joan suspected that whatever guidance it offered came with hidden costs.
On the sixteenth day of her trek, Joan came across an ancient ruin. Its jagged stone towers jutted out of the snow like broken fangs, half-buried by centuries of frost. The structure was massive, a labyrinth of crumbled walls and frozen archways. Her breath misted in the air as she approached, the silence broken only by the crunch of her boots against the snow.
"A relic of an older time," Xal'atath purred, her voice a soft caress in Joan's ear. The doll shifted slightly, its amethyst eyes gleaming with malicious curiosity. "I can feel the power lingering here. This place has seen death… and it has thrived on it."
Joan ignored the comment, though her gauntleted hand drifted instinctively to the hilt of her runeblade. She could feel it too—a heavy, oppressive presence emanating from the ruins. It wasn't like the chill of the wind or the latent magic of the land. This was something darker, deeper, a shadow that pulsed beneath the ice.
As she stepped into the ruins, her boots scraping against cracked stone, the oppressive aura grew stronger. Her blade trembled faintly at her side, its runes glowing a brighter blue. Joan frowned, scanning the area. She could see faint carvings on the walls, weathered by time but still legible. They depicted crude images of figures bowing before an ominous, crowned silhouette.
"This is old magic," she muttered. "Not arcane, not necromantic. Something else."
The whispers, Xal'atath's voice slithered into her mind, carrying that familiar resonance that made Joan's skin prickle. They call to you, Joan. Don't you feel it? This place hungers for something... for someone.
"I feel it," Joan replied tersely, her grip tightening on her blade.
The faint sound of movement reached her ears—a soft shuffling, like claws scraping against stone. Joan's body tensed, her runeblade sliding free from its scabbard with a hiss. She turned toward the noise, her glowing eyes scanning the shadows.
And then she saw it.
A figure emerged from the darkness, its form skeletal and twisted. It wore the tattered remnants of armour, its eyes glowing a sickly blue. Behind it, more figures appeared, shambling into the light. They were an army of the dead, their flesh frozen and cracked, their movements jerky and unnatural. Joan counted at least a dozen.
"Reanimated corpses," Joan muttered, raising her blade. "I've seen worse."
Oh, but these are no ordinary corpses, Xal'atath whispered. "They are bound by something far greater than necromancy. Can you feel it? The threads that control them are woven deep into the fabric of this place."
The first corpse lunged at her, its jagged claws reaching for her throat. Joan sidestepped smoothly, her runeblade flashing in a wide arc. The creature's head separated from its body, and it crumpled to the ground in a heap. But even as it fell, the others advanced, their glowing eyes fixed on her with a hunger that rivalled her own.
Joan moved with practiced precision, her blade weaving a deadly dance of frost and steel. She struck with calculated efficiency, each swing imbued with the icy power of her Death Knight magic. Frost spread across the stone floor with every step, freezing the corpses where they stood. When one managed to get too close, she unleashed a pulse of necromantic energy, blasting it back into the wall with a satisfying crunch.
Yet for every corpse she felled, two more seemed to take its place. They poured out from the shadows, a relentless tide of death. Joan gritted her teeth, summoning a swirling vortex of frost to slow their advance. The air around her grew colder, her power crackling like a storm, but even as she pushed them back, the oppressive presence in the ruins grew stronger.
"This isn't working," Joan muttered. Her breaths came in short bursts, not from exhaustion but from the strain of maintaining her spells in this alien magical environment.
How delightful, Xal'atath said, her tone positively giddy. "You're struggling. Shall I intervene?"
"No," Joan snapped. "I don't need your help."
The doll's laughter echoed in her mind. We shall see.
Joan turned her attention to the source of the oppressive aura. It wasn't just the corpses; it was the ruin itself, the ancient power that pulsed through its walls. She could feel it, like a heartbeat in the stone. If she could sever that connection, the corpses might fall.
"Time to end this," she said, raising her blade. The runes along its edge flared with frost, and she channelled her power into a single strike. The air around her seemed to freeze solid as she swung, sending a wave of icy energy crashing into the nearest wall.
The stone shattered, revealing a hidden chamber beneath. The oppressive aura surged, nearly knocking Joan off her feet. From the darkness, something stirred—a deep, rumbling growl that sent shivers down her spine.
"Oh, my," Xal'atath purred. "You've woken it up."
Joan barely had time to react before the chamber erupted with movement. A massive figure emerged, its body wreathed in shadows and frost. It was humanoid in shape but impossibly large, its glowing blue eyes piercing through the darkness like twin beacons of death. A crown of jagged ice sat upon its head, and in its hand was a sword as black as the void.
The corpses fell to their knees, bowing before the figure. Joan tightened her grip.
Joan's glowing blue eyes met those of her opponent, the eerie twin orbs of the Night King. The oppressive silence of the frozen chamber was shattered only by the faint hum of her runeblade, its icy aura flaring with anticipation. The hulking figure across from her radiated cold, its very presence a palpable force that seemed to drag the air from her lungs. This was no ordinary foe—it was ancient, calculating, and cruel.
The runes on Joan's blade pulsed, responding to her resolve. She could feel her body tense, every muscle coiled like a spring. Memories from her time as a Death Knight screamed at her to attack, to destroy, but a flicker of John's hesitation held her back. This wasn't Azeroth. Was this creature bound by the same rules as her past adversaries?
The Night King struck first.
It moved faster than its towering frame suggested, the great sword of frost in its hands carving through the air with deadly precision. Joan's instincts kicked in just in time, her runeblade meeting the icy weapon in a clash that sent shockwaves rippling through the chamber. Frost formed along the walls, spreading outward from the point of impact.
She grunted, sliding back a step from the force of the blow. The Night King was stronger than she'd anticipated, though not invincible. She pushed forward, unleashing a flurry of precise strikes. Her blade sang as it danced through the air, the runes along its surface glowing brighter with each swing. Frost collided with frost, their battle creating a vortex of icy shards that whirled around them like a storm.
The Night King's face betrayed no emotion, but its movements were deliberate, each strike calculated to test her. Joan deflected one blow after another, her arms straining under the effort. Her body was strong—inhumanly so—but the disconnect between her memories and instincts lingered, making every move feel slower than it should have been. She cursed under her breath, frustration bubbling up alongside her exertion.
"Struggling already, Joan?" Xal'atath's voice slithered into her mind, thick with amusement. Such a pity. I expected more from you.
"Not now," Joan hissed aloud, sidestepping another powerful swing. The Night King's blade slammed into the ground, sending cracks racing through the icy floor. She used the opening to counterattack, her runeblade cutting a wide arc aimed at its exposed side.
The creature twisted unnaturally, avoiding the strike with an agility that defied its bulk. Its hand shot out, icy tendrils extending from its fingers to wrap around her blade. Joan's grip tightened as the cold bit into her gauntlets, frost spreading along the weapon's length. With a snarl, she channelled her necromantic power, sending a surge of energy through the blade that shattered the tendrils and forced the Night King to recoil.
"That's more like it," Xal'atath purred. "Show me the strength of the Death Knight."
Joan ignored her, pressing the advantage. She drove forward, her blade moving in a relentless series of strikes designed to overwhelm her opponent. Each swing carried the weight of her power, frost magic lacing every blow. The chamber grew colder still, the air so frigid that it seemed to freeze in her lungs. Frost coated the walls and floor, creeping ever closer to encasing them entirely.
The Night King countered with equal ferocity. Its sword met hers with bone-rattling force, the clash of their weapons echoing like thunder. Each step it took radiated icy power, its movements fluid despite its imposing frame. The creature's silence was unnerving; it fought with an almost mechanical precision, as if it had faced countless battles before and knew every trick in the book.
A sudden burst of frost magic exploded from the Night King, catching Joan off guard. The blast sent her skidding across the icy floor, her armour screeching as it scraped against the ground. She slammed into a jagged pillar of ice, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. Her runeblade clattered to the ground a few feet away, its runes flickering weakly.
"Pathetic," Xal'atath sneered. "Is this the best you can do? Perhaps I should take control and end this myself."
"Shut up," Joan growled, forcing herself to her feet. Her muscles protested, the disconnection between her mind and body making every movement feel sluggish. She reached for her blade, her fingers closing around the hilt just as the Night King loomed over her.
It raised its sword high, the frost-coated weapon gleaming in the pale light of the chamber. Joan's eyes narrowed. Time seemed to slow as she channelled every ounce of her remaining power into a desperate counterattack. Her runeblade flared to life, its runes blazing with an intense blue light as she swung upward.
The two blades collided with a deafening crack, the force of the impact shattering the ice beneath their feet. The floor gave way, sending them both plunging into the darkness below.
Joan's vision blurred as she tumbled through the freezing void, her body battered by shards of ice and stone. She landed hard, the air driven from her lungs as she struck the unyielding ground. Her armour absorbed most of the impact, but pain still radiated through her body.
She groaned, pushing herself up on shaky arms. The chamber they had fallen into was even colder than the one above, the air thick with frost and the oppressive aura of ancient magic. The Night King stood a short distance away, its glowing eyes fixed on her as it stepped forward with unrelenting purpose.
"You cannot afford to falter now," Xal'atath's voice hissed. "This creature will not stop until you are destroyed. Show it why you were feared in life and death."
Joan gritted her teeth, gripping her runeblade tightly as she rose to her feet. Her body ached, and the dissonance between her memories and instincts still lingered, but she pushed it aside. She couldn't afford to lose. Not here. Not now.
The Night King charged, its sword swinging in a deadly arc. Joan met it head-on, their blades clashing once more. The force of their strikes sent shockwaves rippling through the chamber, the ground beneath them cracking and splintering with each blow. Frost and necromantic energy collided in a dazzling display of power, the air around them freezing solid as their battle raged on.
Joan fought with everything she had, drawing on the memories of her time as an archmage and a Death Knight. She wove frost and death magic together, creating deadly constructs of ice and shadow that lashed out at her opponent. The Night King countered with equal ferocity, its own magic lashing out in waves that threatened to overwhelm her.
But Joan refused to give in. She channelled her frustration, her anger, and her determination into every strike. Her blade became an extension of her will, moving with a precision that belied the dissonance in her mind. Slowly but surely, she began to turn the tide.
With a final, desperate surge of power, Joan unleashed a devastating blast of frost magic that engulfed the Night King. The creature staggered, its icy armour cracking under the force of her attack. Seizing the opportunity, she drove her runeblade forward, the weapon piercing through its chest in a burst of necromantic energy.
The Night King let out a guttural roar, its glowing eyes dimming as it collapsed to its knees. Joan stood over it, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she raised her blade for the finishing blow.
Slightly shorter chapter this time.
Also, fic now has (!genderbend) warning in summary.
Thank you for your reviews :)
Enjoy,
Soari.
