DISCLAIMER: I don't own Warcraft or league of legends. This is a fan fiction inspired by characters and lore of both games. It's also inspired by other great fan fictions made on this site. The fiction is intended to be exciting and even fun and perhaps, hopefully inspiring. It's not to be taken as a cannon or part of the original lore.
Prologue
The biting winds of Northrend howled through the desolate wastes, a mournful chorus that only the dead could sing. Arthas Menethil trudged through the snow, each step sinking into the ice, his fingers gripping the hilt of Frostmourne, his new weapon of destruction, his salvation and also his damnation as his destiny has finally began to fold. The blade thrummed with a dark pulse, the whispers gnawing at the edges of his sanity making him lose it the more he moved on.
Mal'Ganis was dead. The dreadlord's blood still stained Frostmourne's edge, even after all these days he spent wandering the frozen wastes. Yet, there was no satisfaction, no closure. Only the gnawing cold and the ever-present whispers.
"Arthas…"
He halted, chest heaving, frost clinging to his breath. This whisper was different. The voice was soft of someone he left behind.
Or, as he sees it, someone who left him behind. Someone who denied him.
He turned, and through the veil of snow, a silhouette emerged—golden hair cascading over silvered plate, sapphire eyes brimming with both sorrow and hope.
"Jaina?" His voice cracked, disbelieving.
There she stood, striking a deep chord within him, a painful blend of nostalgia and heartache. She stood amidst the biting storm, her golden hair a stark contrast against the pale, desolate backdrop of Northrend. The wind tangled her locks, strands of gold whipping across her face, but her sapphire eyes remained steady, piercing through the veil of snow with a mixture of sorrow and resolve.
Her form was both fragile and unyielding. Frost clung to the edges of her violet and silver robes, the arcane runes woven into the fabric glowing softly, as if her magic breathed along with her. Her skin, pale and cold, held a faint blush of life that seemed almost defiant against the surrounding death.
Against him.
But it was her expression that held him. She did not wear the mask of a mage in battle—there was no hatred, no righteous fury. Instead, her face held a quiet sadness, a depth of understanding that made the blade in his hand feel heavier. Her lips, slightly parted, seemed on the verge of speaking the truth he feared most—that despite everything, she still saw the man she loved beneath whatever he was now.
And in that moment, as the frost gnawed at his skin and the whispers of Frostmourne clawed at his mind, her gaze was both a lifeline and a knife, twisting between his ribs with the weight of what had been lost.
Beside her stood Uther the Lightbringer and his mentor.
And also someone who denied him and even worse almost turned his own men against him.
The paladin stood tall and unyielding, his broad frame clad in battle-worn plate armor that gleamed with the remnants of holy light. Frost had gathered along the edges of his pauldrons, his once vibrant tabard now muted by snow and shadow. The lion sigil of Lordaeron, though dulled by time and frost, still bore the weight of duty and honor.
Uther's face was a battlefield of its own—lined with age and judging gaze that burned with a righteous flame not even the cold around could extinguish. His gaze was heavy, piercing through the storm and into Arthas's soul, as if he could still see the boy he had trained.
And the prince who had betrayed his trust.
But beneath his judging gaze was a profound sadness, a mourning not just for the souls they had lost but for the brotherhood that had been shattered.
His hand gripped the hammer, its head a beacon of golden light that sputtered against the darkness surrounding them. The weapon's glow reflected off the frost, casting faint halos in the swirling snow. But Uther's strength was not in the weapon—it was in his stance, the shining light against the encroaching darkness. He stood between Arthas and the abyss, a last bastion of the Light, a reminder of the path that might have been.
To Arthas, Uther looked like a ghost of the past, a figure carved from memory and remorse. The sight of him was a wound reopened, the echo of his failure to save his people in Stratholmes , a mentor's heartbreak.
And a mentor's betrayal.
Standing beside them was a ranger that Arthas remembered vaguely from his childhood that he spent in Quel'thalas.
For there stood Sylvanas Windrunner, the Ranger General of Silvermoon.
She seemed almost otherworldly amid the biting cold of Northrend, as if straight coming from a book collection of legendary heroes from magical woods. A figure of grace and lethal precision. Her long, blond hair flowed like a banner in the wind, strands catching the light of the dying sun. Unlike Jaina's soft glow or Uther's righteous radiance, Sylvanas wore the shadows like a mantle, her leather armor dark and supple, adorned with silver filigree and the sigils of her people. Her blue eyes were sharp, calculating, the gaze of a hunter sizing up her prey.
Arthas could still recall glimpses of her from his youth, when he had been nothing but a boy visiting Silvermoon. She had been a presence even then—commanding, respected, and feared by those who knew her skill with a bow. He remembered her voice echoing through the sun-dappled forests, a sound as bright as the silver bells of Quel'thalas. It was a stark contrast to the silent, poised warrior before him now.
Her bow was notched, an arrow drawn and ready, the fletching whispering against her cheek. Her fingers held the string with a deadly calm, a viper coiled to strike. Even in the storm, she moved with the fluidity of a shadow, her steps silent, and her breath steady. There was a wildness to her, a connection to the woods that had followed her even into the frostbitten wastes.
But there was no warmth in her eyes when they met his. Only cold purpose. The look of a predator who had found its mark, a hunter who had been waiting, patient and unyielding. And beneath that, perhaps, the burden of a leader who see the upcoming danger on the doorsteps of her homeland presented in the shadows of a fallen prince, tempted by the maddening whispers of the dark forces that control this desolate wasteland of the dead.
And in that moment, as the storm howled and the ice closed in, he saw not only the ranger but something else that awaited him in this distant foreign land that he may soon be calling home.
"This isn't real," Arthas muttered, his breath misting in the air. "You're not real. You can't be here. It'S impossible" he eyed the sword as if it has, somehow, made him start to hallucinate.
"We are as real as the path you tread," Uther said, his voice a thunderclap in the storm. 'We have seen visions, Arthas. Terrible visions about your future, our future. That's why we came'
"The world burns, Arthas," Jaina whispered, echoing the hissing wind of the dead land as she stepped closer. "Not just Lordaeron. I have seen lands beyond our own—visions of a world shattered by your choice." Her voice was soft yet powerful, like a calm tide before a storm.
Not that it mattered to him. He was already damned.
Or so he believed.
His grip on Frostmourne tightened, knuckles pale against the black leather of his gauntlets. The whispers intensified, sharp and venomous. "You can't dissuade me. It is too late. The blade has chosen me."
"No, you have chosen it," Sylvanas retorted, her voice edged with steel. Her bow was drawn, the arrow's tip glowing with frost powers. Her stance was that of a predator, a hunter in the snow, poised to strike.
A gust of wind swept over them, lifting cloaks and rattling armor. The storm raged, wind and ice swirling as if the world itself held its breath. Arthas felt the weight of their words, but the whispers clawed at his resolve. The promise of power. The inevitability of destiny.
"Enough!" He swung Frostmourne, a blade of frost and death, and they moved as one.
Then words he had never known, yet seemed all too familiar, were uttered from his lips.
And the whole land seemed to be responding to magnitude of the power behind those words.
'Frostmourne hungers.' He muttered, then moved to strike.
Uther's hammer met the blade, holy light sparking against unholy frost. The impact sent a shockwave through the snow, a burst of light and shadow. Jaina's arcane bolts seared through the storm, a blur of blue and violet. Sylvanas danced between shadows, her arrows whistling through the chaos.
The clash was a symphony of power, light against dark, redemption against damnation. Arthas felt the power of the dark forces that commanded this place, surging through him. His strikes grew more savage, each blow forcing them back. Uther's armor dented, Jaina's spells shattered, and Sylvanas's arrows froze mid-flight, shattering against his aura of frost.
But in the midst of the battle, flashes of memory broke through the whispers.
His father's throne room.
The gates of Stratholme.
Uther's voice, heavy with disappointment. "You are not my king yet, boy. Nor would I ever obey this command even if you were"
Jaina's tears as she turned away denying him for the first time ever "I am sorry, Arthas. I can't watch you do this'
The young prince, the golden boy of Lordaeron, standing over the pyres, his hands and weapon soaked with the blood of the innocents.
"Do you remember Stratholme, Arthas?" Uther's voice cut through the storm, a shard of light in the darkness. "The weight of every choice, every life you condemned to the flame."
Arthas's face twisted, a storm of emotion. "I did what had to be done. You would have let them suffer, let the plague consume then into undead!"
"You took the choice away from them!" Sylvanas snapped, her voice a whip crack. "You made yourself judge, jury, and executioner. And now you think the blade absolves you?"
Frostmourne pulsed, the whispers turning into a growl. Arthas's grip tightened, his knuckles bone-white. "It is not for you to decide. None of you can understand."
"You are right," Jaina said, her voice a whisper in the storm. "We cannot understand. Because the Arthas we knew would not have let this happen."
Again…
They are denying him again what he had to do.
Like they knew how impossible the situation was back then to deal with unless by getting one's hand dirty.
And it had to be his hands.
And they had to be his judges.
The storm intensified, swirling around them like the eye of a vengeful god. Jaina's hands shimmered with arcane energy, a swirling light that held back the frost. "There is still a chance, Arthas. Come back to us. Come back to yourself."
"Your duty is not over," Uther added, his hammer a beacon of light. "You are still the prince of Lordaeron. You are still the Light's chosen."
"The Light abandoned me," Arthas snarled, the frost creeping up his armor. "When my people needed salvation, it was I who had to make the sacrifice. And where were you? Where was the Light then?"
Jaina stepped closer, the snow melting under her feet. "The Light never abandoned you. You turned away from it. You turned away from us."
"Arthas," Sylvanas's voice was softer now, almost gentle. "You do not have to be this. The choice is still yours."
Arthas's breath came in shuddering gasps. His vision blurred, shadows crawling at the edge of his sight. Frostmourne whispered, the voice of the Lich King seeping into his thoughts, wrapping around his soul like chains.
And yet, he hesitated.
The ice cracked beneath them, a deep, resounding sound. The ground seemed to pulse, a heartbeat in the frozen wasteland. Time slowed, each breath a labor, each beat of his heart a hammer against stone.
Arthas raised Frostmourne, his hands steady, his eyes filled with a storm of doubt and fury. But he did not strike. Not yet.
And then another vision hit him.
Her hand, soft and warm, interlaced with his. A different place, a different time. The golden glow of a candlelit room, the rich velvet of the royal bedchamber. Jaina's hair sprawled over silk pillows, her skin bathed in amber light. Their breaths mingled, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered promises in the quiet of the night.
"I will never deny you, Arthas. Not in this life, not in any other."
His heart thudded, heavy and rhythmic, the echoes of love and desire intertwining. He had believed her then, believed that nothing could sever their bond. That they were destined to share the burdens of their crowns, the weight of their world.
Her fingers had threaded through his, their palms pressed together. His rough skin against her smooth, the promise of their union sealed with whispered vows and the gentle brush of lips. Those moments had felt eternal, suspended in a world where wars and duties could not reach them.
"Even if the world burns around us, I will stand by you," she had said, her breath warm against his chest. Her voice had been a balm, her touch an anchor.
But that was before Stratholme. Before the fires, before the screams. Before her back turned to him, her fingers slipping away as if he were the monster to be feared.
The memory shattered, cold reality snapping him back to the wastelands. His face hardened, a shadow over his features. His voice, when it came, was brittle and sharp.
"You promised me, Jaina. You swore you would never deny me."
Her expression tightened, pain rippling beneath the surface. "I never wanted to, Arthas. But you gave me no choice."
"There is always a choice!" He took a step forward, the ground cracking beneath his boots. "You turned your back on me. On us."
Jaina's hands glowed with arcane light, her stance shifting into readiness. "And you turned your back on your own people. You chose this path, Arthas."
The frost thickened around them, snow swirling into sharp shards that bit at the skin. His knuckles tightened around Frostmourne, the blade humming with dark delight.
"Then let me show you the path I have chosen."
His voice was a growl, as he unleashed a devastating shockwave through the ground that knocked Uther and Sylvanas aside, temporarily disengaging them from the fight.
Now it was only Jaina and him.
Arthas moved first, Frostmourne slashing through the air, its edge cutting the wind itself. Jaina darted aside, the arcane energy around her flaring into a shield that rippled as the blade grazed it. She twisted her hand, sending a surge of frost magic that crackled against Arthas's own, the two forces grinding against each other in a whirlwind of ice and power.
"Do you feel it?" Arthas's voice was a snarl, his eyes glowing with the cold blue of the damned. "The strength that only the damned can know?"
"I feel only sorrow," Jaina replied, her hands weaving an intricate spell. Runes of light spun around her wrists, and a bolt of raw magic exploded from her palms. Arthas met it with Frostmourne, the blade drinking in the magic, wisps of arcane energy curling into the sword's hungry steel.
He advanced, each step pressing her back. His strikes were relentless, the blade a blur of frost and shadows. Jaina parried with barriers of light, each shattering under the weight of his blows. Her breath came in short, visible puffs, the cold biting into her skin.
"Was it sorrow when you left me?" Arthas spat, his blade crashing down. Jaina blocked it with a shield of ice, but cracks spread through it like veins. "Was it pity when you turned your back at Stratholme?"
"It was love, Arthas," she said, her voice breaking. "Love that I couldn't bear to watch you destroy yourself."
Her words were a dagger, slipping past his armor, finding the fragile, bleeding part of him that still remembered warmth. His grip faltered, and in that heartbeat, Jaina struck. An arcane blast hurled him back, snow erupting in a cloud of frost and dust.
He rose slowly, the shadows around him thickening, drawn by Frostmourne's insatiable hunger. His gaze burned through the storm, fixing on her with a predatory focus.
"You think love can save you now?" he whispered, his voice echoing with his new master undertone. "Love is the lie that weakens us. It is power that endures."
"Power without purpose is nothing but a curse," Jaina responded. Her form glowed with a gentle light, a stark contrast to the suffocating dark around Arthas. "And if love is a lie, then I would rather be a fool than a monster."
Uther and Sylvanas regained their footing, now standing by her side in the face of the fallen prince.
He lunged forward, their magic colliding in a tempest of ice and light.
Arthas pressed the attack, his strikes gaining speed and ferocity. Each swing of Frostmourne left trails of frost in the air, a deadly arc of blue and silver. Uther's hammer met the blade, but with each clash, his strength waned. The holy light that surrounded him flickered, dimmed by the shadow that clung to Arthas like a shroud.
Jaina fought to keep distance, her arcane magic weaving barriers and bolts of light. She called upon the elements, ice and fire clashing against Arthas's unholy presence. But the frost he wielded was not of nature's making; it was death incarnate, cold and uncaring. Her barriers shattered, her spells dissipated in the void of his power.
Sylvanas, ever the agile hunter, darted through the snow. Her arrows hissed through the air, each tipped with magic meant to bind or pierce. But even the shadows could not hide her from him. Arthas moved with inhuman speed, his blade deflecting her shots, the shards of her arrows crumbling against the frozen ground.
"Stay down!" he roared, and with a wave of his hand, a surge of frost exploded outward. The ice twisted into spears, the ground ruptured, and all three were thrown back. Uther's shield splintered, the holy light around him barely a flicker. Jaina's robes were torn, frost biting into her skin, her breath labored and visible. Sylvanas lay half-buried in snow, visible cracks on he bow, her hands trembling as she defiantly reached for another arrow.
Arthas loomed over them, his breath a mist of ice. Frostmourne pulsed, a dark rhythm that matched his heartbeat. His shadow stretched long over their fallen forms, the whispers in his mind a crescendo of triumph.
"It ends here," he said, his voice hollow and edged with the Lich King's power. He raised the blade, the steel reflecting the pale, dying light of the storm. His eyes fixed on Jaina first, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Her face, pale and streaked with frost, held no fear—only sorrow.
The blade hovered, its edge humming with hunger. Arthas's hand trembled, the weight of the final blow heavier than the blade itself. The whispers clawed at his mind, urging him, promising power, freedom from the pain.
But beneath it all, another voice stirred—a softer echo, buried under frost and shadow. It spoke not of death, but of warmth. Of clasped hands and whispered vows. Of golden mornings in Lordaeron, where the world seemed smaller, simpler.
His grip on Frostmourne loosened. The sword's glow dimmed, a coil of mist unfurling from the runes etched along its blade. The shadows recoiled, sensing his hesitation, a ripple in the veil of death.
"What are you waiting for?" Uther's voice was a rasp, his body twisted in the snow, blood flecked with ice. "If this is what you've become, then finish it. Prove to us all that the Arthas we knew is truly gone."
Arthas's jaw tightened. "You think this is mercy?" He took a step back, his eyes darting between them. "You think I hesitate because of weakness?"
"Not weakness," Jaina said softly, her voice like a ghost in the wind. "Remembrance."
He snarled, the sound feral. "You know nothing of me. Not anymore."
The ground beneath them rumbled, a deep, seismic groan that sent cracks spearing through the ice.
The wind shifted, the snow swirling into a vortex around them.
The air grew thin, charged with a strange energy.
And then, from the center of the storm, a rift tore through reality.
The rift was a jagged wound in the sky, light and shadow entwined in a violent dance. Colors that had no name bled through, and the snow seemed to burn where the light touched it. A howl, neither human nor beast, echoed from within, a sound that pulled at the very fabric of the world.
Arthas stumbled back, his hand raising to shield his eyes. The rift expanded, its edges fraying, reality unraveling at the seams. The pull of it was immense, a tide of force that dragged the snow, the ice, and everything with it.
Jaina's body lifted from the ground, her form outlined in the strange light. Uther dug his hammer into the ice, but the ground itself slid beneath him. Sylvanas, barely conscious, was swept off her feet, the shadows around her stretching and snapping like threads.
"No!" Arthas shouted, his voice lost in the gale. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Jaina's as she was pulled into the void. The world twisted, the storm swallowing the light, and then all four of them were gone.
Silence descended, the rift sealing itself with a whisper. The snow fell gently over the empty battlefield, covering the wounds of the earth, the only trace of their passing a faint shimmer in the air, a memory lost to the frost.