Chapter 8: Stratholme

Antonidas' study was a sanctuary of order and knowledge amidst the chaos of the world outside. Scrolls and tomes lined the shelves, their pages filled with secrets that had been safeguarded by the Kirin Tor for centuries. His quill writing across the parchment as he meticulously recorded his findings on the latest wave of the mysterious plague that had ravaged the lands of Lordaeron. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, his brow furrowed with the weight of his thoughts when a gentle knock at the door drew him from his work.

"Enter," he called.

The door open, and Archmage Modera stepped in. "Master Antonidas," she began, her voice carrying urgency in spite of her calm demeanor, "you are needed in the council chamber at once."

Antonidas set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching hers. "What is it, Modera?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Former Archmage and Council of Six member Kel'Thuzad," she said simply. "He has been captured by the Alliance and brought before the council."

The blood drained from Antonida's face. "What? How?" The revelation struck him like a bolt of lightning, sending a jolt of energy through his weary body. Kel'Thuzad, the man he had once considered a friend, a fellow seeker of knowledge lost to his own desire for dark arts. To hear that he had been found, and not only that, but captured, was news to them.

"Lady Proudmoore," Modera revealed, her eyes gleaming with a hint of pride. "She and Prince Arthas Menethil had apprehended him, bound and unable to use his magic back at Andorhal."

The name of his young apprentice brought a flicker of hope to Antonida's heart. He knew her to be prodigious and resourceful mage, but even she could not have taken down Kel'Thuzad alone. The thought of Arthas standing alongside her brought a twinge of something else, something he had not felt in a long time: the warmth of camaraderie in the face of such dire circumstances.

"What of the plague?" he asked.

"The Council will speak with him," Modera assured him, her voice firm. "But they wish for your presence at knce."

Antonidas nodded, his mind racing as he gathered his robes around him. "I will come at once," he said, his voice steady despite the anticipation within him.

Together, they hastened through the hallowed halls of Dalaran, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night. As they approached the grand doors of the council chamber, Antonidas took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come.

When the doors swung open, the room was alive with the murmurs of the gathered Council of Six along with other Archmages present. They look upon him as he entered, their expressions a mix of shock, hope, and skepticism. At the center of it all was Kel'Thuzad, his eyes gleaming with malice and spite. The air was thick with tension as the two old friends and former colleagues locked gazes, the chasm between them now an unbridgeable abyss.

Kel'Thuzad's gaze flicked up to meet Antonidas, the necromancer's eyes gleaming with a malicious glee that sent a shiver down the spine of the archmage. "Antonidas," he croaked, his voice a hollow echo of the vibrant, scholarly tone that had once filled the halls of the Kirin Tor. "How good it is to see the face of an old friend in such... trying times."

Antonidas' expression remained stoic as he stepped closer to the bound necromancer, his eyes like twin shards of ice. "You forsook that title when you delved into the arts that should have remained buried," he replied coldly. "The paths you took are not those of the Kirin Tor, nor are they those of a man who values life and knowledge in equal measure."

The room was silent. Kel'Thuzad coughed, a wet, guttural sound that seemed to carry with it the very essence of the grave. "Is that so?" he sneered. "And tell me, my friend, was it not the pursuit of knowledge that led your esteemed council to cast me out? Is it not the hunger for understanding that drives all sorcerers to push the boundaries of the arcane?"

The tension in the chamber grew palpable, the whispers of the other mages fading away as they watched the exchange with bated breath. Antonidas' jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the staff of power that he clutched tightly. "You speak of the pursuit of knowledge as if it grants you the right to play god," he spat. "You have brought nothing but death and despair to our lands with your twisted experiments."

Kel'Thuzad leaned back against the chair, his chains rattling with his movements. "Is it not the duty of every mage to learn all that they can?" he challenged. "To peer into the very fabric of existence and pull forth its secrets, no matter the cost? Was that not what our masters taught us?"

The Grand Magus' gaze grew steely. "They taught us to respect the balance," he corrected. "To wield power responsibly. You have forgotten those lessons yourself."

Kel'thuzad's smile grew wider, a ghastly parody of his former self. "But the world is ever changing, my old friend," he taunted. "What was once forbidden is now merely... misunderstood. And as for the balance, it tips ever in favor of those who dare to seize power."

Modera stepped forward. "According to the reports given by the mages who escorted him, as well as the account of Lady Jaina Proudmoore, Kel'Thuzad has not only been involved in the creation of the plague but has been orchestrating its spread across Lordaeron."

The chamber grew still as a grave, the mages exchanging horrified glances. The very notion of a member of their once revered council engaging in such act was almost too much to bear.

"Is this true?" Antonidas's voice was low, laced with a mix of anger and grief. "Kel'Thuzad, tell me that you did not bring this horror upon our people."

The necromancer's eyes lit up with a twisted pride. "Indeed it is," he cackled, the sound sending a chill through the spines of all who heard it. "My 'children', have found a new purpose in this world. A world that shunned them, that cast them out, now embraces them in their suffering. And they are most grateful for the home I've provided."

The room erupted in a cacophony of outrage and disgust, the mages shouting accusations and demands for an explanation. Their prisoner reveled in their revulsion, his chuckle echoing off the chamber walls like the howl of a madman.

With a swift, precise motion, Antonidas's staff slammed into the stone floor, the sound echoing through the chamber like a thunderclap. The mages fell silent, their eyes flicking back to the archmage as he approached Kel'Thuzad. The necromancer's laughter died in his throat, his expression shifting from glee to one of wary contempt.

"Who is it that you serve, Kel'Thuzad?" Antonidas's voice was a low growl, the weight of his accusation heavy upon the room. "What dark master has twisted your mind and corrupted your soul to bring about this plague?"

Kel'Thuzad's sneer grew more pronounced as he looked up at the Grand Magus with disdain. "You would not understand, you old fool," he spat, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "The seeds have already been planted. Soon, you will all see the truth, once it had taken its roots."

The tension in the room was like a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment. The mages shifted uneasily, their eyes darting from Kel'Thuzad to Antonidas and back again, the gravity of the situation etched upon their faces.

"Tell us," Antonidas demanded, his voice like the crack of a whip. "Who is the master that commands you?"

Kel'Thuzad chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. "You seek answers where none can be found," he said. "But fear not, you will learn soon enough. If any of you live to see the dawn of the new era I have helped ushered in."

The room was thick with unspoken accusations and the promise of retribution. Antonidas's gaze bore into Kel'Thuzad, his eyes piercing the veil of darkness that shrouded the necromancer's soul. "You will tell us," he said, his voice like the tolling of a doom bell. "You will reveal the source of this corruption, or I will tear it from your mind piece by piece."

Kel'Thuzad leaned his head back, inviting the intrusion with a macabre smile. "Be my guest," he rasped.

Antonidas's eyes narrowed, his hand shaking with barely contained fury. With a deep, centering breath, the archmage reached out with his own arcane might, placing his hand upon Kel'Thuzad's forehead. The room grew cold as the two mages' powers intertwined, their very essences clashing like warring titans.

The necromancer's mind was a labyrinth of decay, his thoughts a cacophony of screams and whispers that made Antonida's skin crawl. He pushed deeper, searching for the truth hidden amidst the madness. The whispers grew louder, taunting and seductive, but he remained steadfast, his will unyielding.

Suddenly, Antonidas recoiled, his hand flying away from Kel'Thuzad as if burned. He staggered back, his eyes wide with horror and revulsion. "What... what have they done to you?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Kel'Thuzad's chuckled filled the chamber, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of the abyss. "They have set me free," he crooned, his eyes alight with an unholy glee. "As they would do for the rest of this world"

The mages surrounding them watched in silence, their expressions a mix of horror and fascination as the two men locked gazes once more.

"Your patience is admirable, Kel'Thuzad," Antonidas said through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving the necromancer's. "But your time for revelry is at an end. You will be detained, and we will uncover every last detail of your treachery."

Kel'Thuzad's grin remained plastered on his face. "I'd be honored," he quipped, his voice laced with amusement. "But why rush, my friend? We have all the time in the world to reminisce about the old days of the Kirin Tor."

The archmage's eyes narrowed. "Those days are long past," he said firmly. "The peace and tranquility of Dalaran and the rest will not be broken by your delusions."

The necromancer chuckled, his eyes gleaming with an inner fire. "Peace and tranquility?" he echoed. "Such quaint notions. But worry not, you shall have your fill of memories. For when the dust settles and the new order arises, it is our history that will be rewritten. And who knows," he mused, "perhaps you will find yourself playing a part in it yet."

The room was a cauldron of tension, the mages' eyes locked on the two as they sparred with words, each one a dagger thrown with precision. The air crackled with the power of their unspoken magic. "Take him away," Antonida ordered, his voice like a whip crack. The guards stepped forward, their movements sharp and precise as they tightened Kel'Thuzad's restraints.

As the guards dragged Kel'Thuzad away, his eyes found Rhonin, whose face was a mask of anguish as he read the letter from Arthas, detailing the horrors that had befallen his family. "Archmage Rhonin," Kel'Thuzad called out, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "My deepest condolences for your loss. It seems the wheels of fate have turned against you quite dramatically."

Rhonin's hand clenched around the parchment, the paper crumpling in his grip. His eyes, brimming with grief and anger, shot up to meet Kel'Thuzad's gaze. "You monster," he hissed, the words a coiled spring of fury. The mages who were with him, held him back from doing anything drastic.

As the guards dragged Kel'Thuzad from the chamber, his cackling faded into the distance, leaving behind a palpable silence that was thick with the weight of his malevolent presence. Rhonin stood trembling, the letter crumpled in his fist, his eyes a storm of anguish and rage. The other mages gathered around him, their hands gentle but firm as they held him back from pursuing the necromancer.

"Rhonin," Antonidas spoke, his voice filled with solemn gravitas, "Your loss is a wound that cuts deep into the heart of us all. It will not go unanswered."

Modera nodded in agreement, her gaze steely with resolve. "We will not let this stand," she declared. "We will find a way to bring peace to the souls of the fallen, and ensure that no family suffers as yours has."

Antonidas's gaze softened as he took the crumpled letter from Rhonin's trembling hand. He carefully unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning over the painfully inked words. "The prince has written more than just his condolences, my friend," he murmured, his voice thick with the weight of his discovery.

"What is this about, Antonidas?" Rhonin's voice was strained, his eyes flickering between the archmage and the letter.

Antonidas's gaze remained on the parchment for a moment longer before he spoke. "The prince has a warning," he said, his voice heavy with the burden of the unspoken words. "He wishes for you to pass it on to your wife, who is sister to the Ranger-General of Quel'thalas, Sylvanas. It seems that even in the midst of his own battles, Prince Arthas has uncovered a potential threat to her homeland."

The mages exchanged puzzled glances. "Magister Dar'Khan Drathir," Modera murmured, her eyes narrowing. "What could he possibly mean?"

Antonidas cleared his throat, the tension in the room thickening as he read aloud the second half of the message. "Bid your wife, Lady Vereesa, to warn Sylvanas of Magister Dar'Khan Drathir. His loyalty to their cause is in question. He is not to be trusted and to be watched closely."

The chamber grew still, the gravity of the message sinking in. Rhonin's eyes widened, his mind racing. "But Dar'Khan is one of the most esteemed of her people as one of their most powerful magisters who distinguished themselves in the Second War," he protested, his voice thick with disbelief. "What could have happened to make the Prince of Lordaeron suspect him?"

"It is a bold accusation," Modera said, her brow furrowed with concern. "But we cannot rule out any possibilities in these times."

Antonidas nodded solemnly. "It may be that the Prince has uncovered some nefarious plot that involves Dar'Khan," he mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "We tread carefully. If true, this betrayal could be catastrophic."

Rhonin nodded, his thoughts racing. "I will send a message to Vereesa immediately," he said. "She must know of this... warning."

Antonidas placed a comforting hand on Rhonin's shoulder. "Do so, my friend," he said gravely.

The journey from Heartglen to Startholme was a silent one. Despite the measures he had placed onto the city, Arthas could not help but feel agitated whenever the subject of the city comes into mind. Even with the newfound purpose to rewrite what was written before him, he just felt nervous. Paranoid even, especially since any error made by forces outside his control would spiral into a new, unwanted result. And that increased somewhat when he found the camp that was established by his orders.

As he and Falric approached, they found Captain Marwyn recently giving orders to one of his men before he saw the two of them approach him. His expression was one of relief at the sight of the Prince, but it quickly turned to one of concern as he saw the grim look on Arthas' face. "Your Highness," Marwyn greeted with a bow. "We've been expecting you."

Arthas dismounted from his steed, as did Falric with his own horse, his gaze sweeping over the camp. The flickering torches cast long shadows over the huddled forms of the refugees, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty. "How goes the evacuation?" Arthas lowly asked with urgency.

Marwyn stepped closer to him. "It proceeds as you've ordered, sire," he reported. "We've managed to keep the grain situation under control, but the civilians are growing restless because they have been let out of their homes. But they have been provided with substitutes for their sustenance"

"It seemed that something else is amiss", Falric wondered to his fellow commander.

"Some of the townsfolk are stubborn, refusing to leave their homes," Marwyn continued, sounding stressed and frustrated. "We've tried to convince them, but fear for their families' safety holds them back."

Arthas sighed heavily. "We'll do what we can to ensure their safety," he stated with firm resolve. "But we cannot force them to leave if they won't. And what of the Baron Rivendare? Is he apprehended as I ordered?"

Marwyn nodded. "Yes, sire," he replied. "We acted upon the evidence and information we gathered. He is now in our custody and has been escorted to the Capital City under heavy guard. Lord Jeremiah Goodwin has taken over in his stead, ensuring that both the city and the refugees here are cared for and protected."

A flicker of relief passed through Arthas's eyes, but he remained vigilant. "Good," he said curtly. "Have our troops remain on guard. The undead may be encroaching the city in any moment now."

Falric leaned in, his voice tinged with curiosity. "And what of his son, Aurius, sire?" he questioned. "Does the Baron's son share his father's treachery?"

"Aurius is a Paladin of the Silver Hand, through and through," Arthas interjected, his voice firm. "His dedication to the Light is unwavering. It's very unlikely he knew of his father's dealings with Kel'thuzad or the cult, much less participated in it."

Turning to Marwyn again, Arthas asked, "Where is Lord Goodwin at the moment?"

Marwyn glanced at the side of the city. "He's at the Baron's manor, Your Highness," he replied. "Overseeing the situation and coordinating the city guard and officials. He has been doing well enough to be chosen by Lord Uther it seems."

Arthas nodded, motioning Falric and Marwyn to follow him. The guards stationed outside snapped to attention, recognizing the prince despite the weariness etched into his features. Inside, Lord Goodwin was hunched over a large table, poring over maps and parchments, his face etched with worry. He looked up as Arthas entered, his eyes widening slightly before he composed himself and offered a curt nod. "Your Highness," he said, his voice carrying the weight of the city's troubles.

"Lord Goodwin," Arthas greeted, his eyes scanning the room. "How fare the people of Stratholme?"

The older man sighed heavily. "They are...resilient, but their fear grows with each passing hour," he admitted. "Many question what we are doing, comparing this to the Orc internment camps."

Arthas cupped his chin. "I could not blame them for their response in that matter." he softly said with in resignation. Better a temporary inconvenience than an enternal curse fall upon them. "Still, what were they receiving as they are held outside?"

"The supplies are holding up," Lord Goodwin assured him. "We've received shipments from other kingdoms. Meat, vegetables, fruits, and water. It's not ideal, but it will sustain them."

Arthas nodded in approval. "Good," he murmured, his voice low and intense. "Keep the morale high, and I will deal with whatever threats that may come. What of those who refused to leave their homes?"

"They are stubborn, indeed," Lord Goodwin said with a weary smile. "We've tried to persuade them, but their resolve is unshakeable. In the end, we've chosen to respect their wishes, supplying them with what we can through their windows. We can't force them out, but we won't let them starve. And we have decided to use the Baron's grain from his stockpiles in his manor to make up with what we are lacking."

Arthas' blood froze at what he just heard, inwardly wishing that he was hearing things. "What did you say you gave them?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm.

Goodwin felt a chill running down his spine upon seeing the Prince's reaction. "The supplies that we have are already dwindling, your Highness", he said, maintaining composure. "The needs of the others outside have thinned our resources to the limit, that we have to make do with what we could deem as safe."

"You. Did. WHAT?!", he burst out and without warning, Arthas grabbed the man by his collar, bearing a face with a mix of shock, anger, and fear. "Do you have any idead what you just did!?" he hissed through gritted teeth.

Falric and Marwyn tensely watched the Prince's outburst, ready to move in if need be.

The noble was taken aback by the prince's sudden outburst "I-I don't understand," he stuttered, his hands coming up in a defensive gesture. "We had no choice but to use the Baron's grain. We couldn't leave them without food."

Arthas' voice was low and dangerous. "You have no idea what you just did," he said, his eyes never leaving Goodwin's. "Whatever is inside of his house, is tainted."

The lord's eyes widened in horror as he grasped the implication. "But we checked," he protested feebly. "They seemed fine. There were no signs of corruption."

Shaking Goodwin slightly, Arthas' voice grew louder. "Then you have unknowingly played his part,"He released Goodwin with a shove, his hand clenching into a fist. "Do you know what the Baron did?" Arthas demanded, his voice filled with accusation. "Do you know the extent of his treachery?"

Goodwin's face paled, his hands shaking as he straightened his robes. "No, Your Highness," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know only of his arrest. I was not privy to the details of his crimes. He could not have kept iany nfected grain in his own household, which is why we felt that it was safe to distribute."

Arthas spun on his heel, his eyes alight with urgency. "Marwyn, how many people have we evacuated from Stratholme?" he barked.

Marwyn, taken aback by the prince's sudden fury, snapped to attention. "Approximately eighty to eighty-five percent, sire," he replied, his voice tight. "But the rest are those who refused to leave."

Arthas' face grew darker. "Gather the men," he ordered, his voice like thunder. "We will not let them become unwitting pawns in this game of death. Force those families out of their homes, now! We have to make sure none of them have consumed the tainted grain."

Falric and Marwyn exchanged a quick look before moving to carry out the prince's commands. Goodwin, still reeling from the revelation, found his voice. "But, Your Highness, we can't just—"

"You will do as I say," Arthas cut him off, his eyes cold as steel. "Move the civilians to the outskirts of the city, as far from here as possible," he continued, his voice a whip crack of authority. "And prepare for the worst."

Goodwin, swallowed his protests and nodded, fear mixing with his loyalty. "At once," he murmured, turning to leave and organize the evacuation of the remaining population.

In a fit of anger, Arthas slammed his fist down to the table, breaking it. This was not supposed to happen,and he felt like smashing his head into a brick wall. In spite of his constant preparation and the risks he had taken, he did not wish to relive the nightmare he had caused before. Where he had to slaughter the rest in a sick twisted game like he had with Mal'Ganis.

The Dreadlord have not appeared yet, but Arthas was sure that he was laughing at this misfortune caused by human error.

He quickly left the manor. He had gone this far. The only thing he could do now, is damage control before it could spread even further.

Uther and Jaina rode into the bustling evacuation camp outside Stratholme, their hearts heavy with the urgency of their mission. As they dismounted, they immediately noticed the tension in the air, the villagers' desperate faces, and the flurry of activity around them. They spotted Lord Goodwin in the distance, barking orders to his soldiers and other officials organizing their sudden move. He looked grim, his eyes filled with a burden that spoke of a grave mistake.

"Lord Goodwin!" Uther called out, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The man turned, his shoulders slumping slightly at the sight of them. "Lord Uther," he said, his voice strained. "Lady Proudmoore."

The Paladin approached quickly and cautiously. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

Goodwin took a deep breath, his eyes meeting Uther's with a mix of regret and fear. "I've...I've made an error," he confessed, his voice trembling. "We gave the grain from Baron Rivendare's manor to the families who refused to leave. We had no reason to suspect—"

Jaina gasped, grasping her staff. "The grain," she murmured, horrified. "You mean..."

Goodwin nodded, his face ashen. "I reealized it too late. Prince Arthas is with Captain Falric where they are forcing them from their homes to ensure they haven't consumed it."

Uther's gaze hardened, his eyes flashing with anger and disbelief. "What have you done?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Goodwin hung his head. "I didn't know," he whispered. "We were only trying to help."

Jaina stepped forward, her voice filled with urgency. "Where are they now?"

Goodwin pointed to the distant part of the city. "They're over there," he said, his voice barely audible. "But beware, the situation is...volatile."

Without another word, Uther and Jaina set off at a run, their hearts racing with the dread of what they might find.

Arthas..., Jaina thought for her Prince. I hope we're not too late.

The sound of terrified screams grew louder as Arthas and Falric approached the house, weapons drawn. The sturdy wooden door stood as a barrier to their entry, but the cries from within were unmistakable. "Open up!" Arthas called out, his voice filled with authority and compassion. "You have to come with us!"

The only response was the sound of shuffling and panic from the other side of the door. Falric stepped closer, his hand on his sword, his eyes questioning the prince's next move. Time was running out, and he had to act now.

With a heavy heart, Arthas raised Light's Vengeance and brought it down upon the sturdy wooden door with a resounding crack, the force of his blow sending splinters flying as it gave way. Falric and the soldiers followed closely behind, their eyes wide at the scene that unfolded before them. The room was dimly lit by flickering candles, casting eerie shadows on the walls, and the smell of decay was palpable. Inside, the once-peaceful abode had become a macabre tableau of horror.

The husband, his eyes glazed with a malevolent light, was crouched over the body of the old man who is likely the grandfather, whose lifeless form lay on the floor, a gaping wound in his throat. His teeth were stained crimson, and his movements were jerky and unnatural. The man's wife and daughter cowered in a corner, their screams muffled by the gore that surrounded them. A couple of footmen with them even vomitted at the grotesque sight, and Arthas gritted his teeth.

"Falric," he whispered, his voice strained, "Get them out of here." He didn't need to specify who he meant—his friend knew all too well.

Falric nodded grimly, and he and his men rushed to the terrified women, trying to usher them out of the house as gently as possible. The wife stumbled, her legs trembling with fear, and Arthas caught her, his eyes never leaving her father's twitching form. The daughter clung to her mother, sobbing into her skirts, her eyes wide with shock.

The husband, now aware of the intrusion, turned to face them, his movements growing more erratic by the second. Arthas stepped forward, his hand tightening around Light's Vengeance . "I'm sorry," he murmured, the words barely audible. "I'm so sorry."

The man let out a guttural snarl and lunged towards his family, his arms outstretched in a mindless hunger for the living. Arthas had no choice but to act. With a swift, decisive swing, he brought his weapon down upon the man's head, ending his suffering and the immediate threat.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the muffled sobs of the wife and daughter. Arthas stared at the lifeless body, his thoughts racing.

"What in the name of the Light was that?" Falric gasped, his eyes wide with horror as he stared at the lifeless body of the man who acted like a wild beast.

Marwyn's hand was over his mouth, his eyes filled with a mix of shock and disbelief as he took in the carnage. "My prince," he whispered, "what sorcery is this?"

Arthas' gaze snapped up from the grisly scene, meeting Falric's horrified stare. His voice was a harsh whisper as he explained, "That is what happens when one consumes the tainted grain," he said, his eyes haunted by the memories of his past. "Their bodies are turned against them, and their souls bound to someone else." He stepped over the lifeless corpse and approached the trembling wife and daughter, his eyes searching theirs for any signs of infection.

Arthas quickly knelt before the trembling wife and daughter, his eyes searching theirs for any signs of the insidious taint. "Did any of you consume the grain?" he asked urgently, his voice taut with tension.

The wife looked at him with tear-filled eyes, her voice shaking as she replied, "No, Your Highness. We had not eaten it ourselves. It was only my husband who took a bite of the bread we made from it, and then he..." she trailed off, her gaze falling to the lifeless form of her husband on the floor and her deceased father-in-law.

The daughter clutched her mother's hand, her own eyes wide with terror. "We were afraid," she whispered. "He started to change, and we didn't know what was happening."

Arthas nodded gravely, his heart aching for their plight. "You did well to stay safe," he assured them, his tone gentle despite the horror of the situation. He turned to a nearby footman, his expression grim. "Escort them out of the city," he ordered. "Make sure they are well-guarded and taken under Lord Goodwin's watch. They are not to be left unsupervised."

The footman nodded and stepped forward, taking the mother's elbow to help her stand. Falric, his own face a mask of horror, couldn't hold back his thoughts. "But what of the others?" he choked out. "How many more could be in their homes, transforming into...that?"

Arthas stood, his expression hardening as he faced Falric. "We have to find them," he said, his voice low and filled with resolve. "Now."

"HELP! SOMEONE HELP!", they heard a child's cry outside and they immediately took off. The cries grew louder as they approached the next house, his tiny form a blur of desperation as he sprinted into the night, the unmistakable sounds of shuffling and gnashing of teeth following close behind. Arthas, Falric, and Marwyn exchanged grim glances before charging ahead. As they reached the open doorway, the heart-wrenching scene unfolded before them. The boy stumbled and fell, his father and two older brothers advancing on him with the same terrifying ferocity they had just witnessed. Their eyes, once filled with familial warmth, now burned with the cold light of the Scourge. The father reached out with bloodied hands, his jaws agape in a silent, unending scream.

Reluctantly, Arthas shouted, "Don't let them get any closer!" his voice a command that brooked no argument. Falric and Marwyn, though their hearts were heavy with the thought of striking down their own kin, knew they had to protect the living. Falric stepped forward, his sword glinting in the moonlight, and brought it down swiftly, ending the father's undying pursuit.

Marwyn, his face a mask of anguish, turned to the brothers. "Do it," he said hoarsely, unable to watch the prince face this horror alone. Falric nodded, steeling himself, and together they dispatched the two young men, their movements swift and precise, a grim dance of necessity.

The boy looked up at Arthas, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. "M-my family," he stuttered, his voice trembling. "What's happening to them?"

Arthas's own eyes filled with tears, his heart breaking at the innocent question. "It's...it's a curse," he managed to say, his voice thick with emotion. He scooped the child up, holding him tightly. "You're safe now."

Falric stepped closer, his voice low. "We have to find the others, Your Highness," he urged. "We must save as many as we can."

The prince nodded, his eyes never leaving the child's. "Yes," he agreed, his voice strained. With a heavy heart, Arthas handed the trembling boy to a nearby guard, his gaze never leaving the child's face. "Take him to Lord Goodwin, he would be safe there."

He was desperately praying that no more lives would be unfortunate enough to consume the infected grain.

Uther and Jaina arrived, panting and out of breath, their eyes scanning the grim scene before them. The sounds of battle had ceased, and in its place was the mournful wail of the widowed wife and her child, the echoes of their grief hanging heavy in the air. Jaina's eyes searched for Arthas, finding him standing looking exhausted, anguished and sorrowful amidst the carnage, his face a portrait of sadness and resolve.

"Arthas, what has happened here?" Uther demanded, his eyes taking in the lifeless bodies of the once-human townsfolk.

The prince's gaze flicked to the paladin, his jaw clenched tight. "The grain," he said, his voice a harsh whisper, sounding terrified. "Many had taken them... this...this..."

Jaina's hand flew to her chest, hear heartbeat taking pace "You mean to say...that these people have become like Kel'Thuzad's minions?" she asked, her voice shaking.

Arthas weakly nodded. "Worse, perhaps," he murmured. "They are mindless, driven by hunger and the will of their new masters. We...we have to stop them..."

The revelation hit Uther like a hammer to the chest. He had seen the horrors of the undead before, but the thought of their own people falling to this curse was almost too much to bear. "What of the others?" he asked, his voice thick with dread.

"We are doing all we can," Falric interjected, his face a mask of sorrow. "We have to find those are not yet infected, and...and deal with those who have."

Jaina's gaze fell to the ground, her thoughts racing. "This is terible...," she murmured, her voice trembling. "To think that we could be fighting our own..."

Marwyn, stepped forward, but the hand that held his bloodied sword was trembling. "We cannot allow pity to cloud our judgment, Lady Proudmoore" he said firmly, but it was clear that he was in denial as they are. "We must protect the innocent, even if it means..." he trailed off, unable to voice the unthinkable.

The Prince turned to Uther, gripping his arm, pleading with him. "Uther, I know what I would ask would mean violating everything that the Silver Hand stood for, but you have to help in letting the others escape, even if it meant..."

"Arthas...", Uther interrupted him, unsure on what to say. "There could be another way..."

He was not letting the Paladin talk to him like that as it happened before. Not when he needed Uther's help the most in this critical moment. "I know you won't do it, Uther, and you know that as the Silver Hand's leader. But we are talking about those who still live among us and their safety."

Arthas had to choose his words carefully. He wasn't ordering Uther to purge the city like a madman. But he was ordering him to fulfill his duty to save those who remained. "You can follow your creed and let the others suffer for it, or stand with us and help them live to see another day. Your choice."

Uther was at a crossroads. His pupil had made a point. But...he swore an oath not to harm Lordaeron's people by any means.

"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!", The panic-stricken father's cries grew more desperate as he stumbled into their midst, his two-year-old daughter clutched tightly in his arms. The little girl's eyes were wide with terror, her tiny frame shaking with sobs. "Help us, Lord Uther!" he screamed at Uther, his voice hoarse with fear. "My wife—she's gone mad! She ate the bread and now she's after us!"

Uther's heart wrenched at the sight of the terrified child, his eyes flicking to Arthas for guidance. Arthas' own gaze was a storm of turmoil, his mind racing with the weight of the impending tragedy. Falric and Marwyn tensed, their weapons at the ready, as the wife's inhuman growls grew louder, echoing through the night.

The father's eyes darted to his pursuer, his desperation palpable. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking, "save us from this curse!"

Before any of them could react, the wife burst into the street, her eyes burning with the same malevolent light that had claimed the others. Her movements were jerking and erratic, her face a twisted mockery of the loving wife and mother she once was. She lunged at her husband and daughter, who were behind Uther.

Uther's hand tightened around the hilt of his war hammer, the weight of the decision pressing down on him like an unyielding mountain. His heart was torn between the sacred oath to protect the innocent and the grim necessity of preventing the spread of the undying plague. He took a step forward, his eyes never leaving the woman's contorted face as she staggered closer.

"I am sorry," he murmured, the words a prayer to the Light that had guided him throughout his life. "Forgive me for what I must do." His voice grew stronger as he raised his weapon, his eyes filled with a sorrow that seemed to mirror the very essence of the tragic scene unfolding before him.

The husband watched in horror as Uther's hammer arced through the air, the gleaming silver a stark contrast against the blackness of the night. The blow landed with a sickening crunch, sending the woman's body flying backward to land with a thud in the dirt. Her eyes, once filled with the cold light of the Scourge, now stared lifelessly at the stars above.

Uther's eyes squeezed shut, as if trying to banish the image of the lifeless woman from his mind. His heart felt as if it were being squeezed in a vice, but he had to protect who remained.

It was then that they heard the distant cries of panic, echoing through the eerily still streets. The sound grew louder, and soon they saw the silhouettes of several terrified civilians sprinting towards them, their faces etched with horror and fear. "More of them," Falric murmured, his voice tight with tension.

As the group grew closer, the grim reality became clear: the fleeing townsfolk were being pursued by a horde of the undead—men, women, and even children, their eyes burning with the same cold, blue fire that had claimed the others, ready to feast upon the fleeing residents. There were at least fifty of them, an overwhelming number that sent a chill down Arthas' spine.

"Hold the line," Arthas bellowed, his voice thick with pain and determination. "Get the uninfected to safety!" Falric and Marwyn didn't hesitate, their cries echoing through the streets as they rallied the remaining villagers. Jaina, however, remained rooted to the spot, her eyes reflecting the turmoil in her soul as she watched the approaching horde.

"Arthas, this is madness," she protested, her voice quivering. "These are people—they were our kin!"

The prince looked at her, his own eyes brimming with torment. "I know," he said, his voice strained. "But...what choice do we have, Jaina?"

"But we can't just...," the sorceress paused, unable to finish her sentence. "There has to be another way!"

"There isn't," Arthas replied in a defeated and desperate tone. "If there was another solution, I would glady take that other than this." He paused, his gaze lingering on the terrified faces of the townsfolk as they stumbled away from the approaching horror. "Bu...there isn't. We do this for those we can still save."

Jaina stared at him, conflicted. Arthas could see the doubt in her eyes, the struggle between her compassion and the cold reality of their situation. He knew that look all too well, for he had worn it himself countless times in his own dark journey.

In all in his heart, he did not wish Jaina to be involved here to begin with. But she had been grasped by unfortunate timing. "It's them or those who remain untainted," he told her gently, holding her shoulders. "Not just for Stratholme, but for Lordaeron and to everyone else."

Uther took a deep, shuddering breath, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic scene before them. "He...he is right Jaina," he said, his voice heavy with reluctance. "We have to respond, though it goes against every fiber of our being." His eyes searched the horde, his heart aching with every step the undead took closer to them. "But I swear, we will find a way to end this curse," he vowed, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his hammer.

Jaina's eyes searched Arthas's, seeking a glimmer of hope, a shred of mercy amidst the horror. "There must be another way," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We cannot just...exterminate them all."

Arthas looked at her, the anguish in his own gaze reflecting the tumult in hers. "Believe me, Jaina," he said, his voice tight with pain, "If there was something. Anything to bring them back the way they were, I'd take it no questions asked." His eyes, once the bright blue of a clear sky, now held the somber depth of a storm-tossed sea. "For every soul we save now, we prevent a thousand more from falling."

Jaina's resolve wavered, her heart heavy with the burden of the lives that would be lost. She knew Arthas was right, but the thought of slaughtering their own people was a bitter pill to swallow. She took a deep, shaky breath and closed her eyes in deep thought.

The infected horde charged ahead, their twisted forms a morbid parody of the lives they once led. Arthas, Uther, Falric, and Marwyn stood firm with their men, their faces grim masks of determination. Falric raised his sword, his voice a battle cry that pierced the night. "For the King! For Lordaeron!"

Arthas took a deep, shaky breath, the weight of his decision bearing down on him. His eyes searched the horde for any sign of the people who had been lost to the infection. With a silent apology to his fallen people, he gripped the handle of his war hammer, the weapon that had once brought hope to the lands now poised to deliver a merciless blow to the very people he had sworn to protect.

Jaina raised her staff. It began to dance with arcane power, casting a series of fireballs that streaked through the night, each one impacting with a deafening roar, engulfing the charging undead in fiery embraces.

Her elementals, summoned forth from the very fabric of water, surged to life, their liquid forms solidifying into towering beings of ice and fury. They marched alongside the paladins, their icy breaths freezing the ground beneath them. The water elementals crashed into the horde, shattering the undead like brittle porcelain as they sought to protect the living from the relentless tide of death.

The battle raged on, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh and the acrid scent of necrotic magic. Each swing of Arthas' hammer brought down another of the cursed, their unholy shrieks echoing through the streets of Stratholme. Uther's hammer, a symbol of purity and hope, cracked the skulls of the undead with a resounding finality, sending their lifeless forms crumbling to dust. Falric and Marwyn fought with the ferocity of men who knew the fate of their homeland rested upon their actions, their swords flashing through the night like the light of distant stars.

Arthas could see the fear in the eyes of the fleeing townsfolk, their faces a mirror of the anguish he felt within his own soul. He swung his hammer with a fury born of desperation, each blow a silent scream against the fate that had been dealt to them.

The battle was short but grueling, with each blow striking a chord of sorrow in their hearts. When the last of the undead lay motionless, the once-lively streets of Stratholme were left stained with the crimson of blood. The cries of the slain echoed through the night, a haunting melody of tragedy. Jaina stood amidst the carnage, her hands trembling as the last of her fiery spells dissipated. She couldn't hold back the tears that streamed down her cheeks. These were people they had been unable to save, people whose lives had been snuffed out by the very hands that were meant to protect them.

"It's not your fault," she whispered hoarsely to herself, her voice barely audible over the heavy silence that had descended upon them. "We did what we had to."

Arthas, his eyes reflecting the same pain and regret, approached her, his steps measured and heavy. "No, Jaina," he said firmly, his own voice filled with the echoes of his own dark past. "This is my fault. I should have seen this coming. I should have done more."

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as she sobbed into his chest. Despite his own anguish, he offered what little comfort he could, his heart aching for her grief. "You did everything you could," she protested weakly, her voice muffled by his armor. "We all did."

He nodded solemnly, his hand stroking her hair gently. "Yes...we all did."

The coldness of the night suddenly intensified as a new presence invaded the air around them. Jaina shivered, not from the chill but from the malicious aura that seeped into her very bones. Arthas' arms fell from her shoulders as he too felt the disturbance. He turned his gaze to the horizon, his eyes narrowing in recognition and anger. He knew of his presence very well.

One that determined his destiny previously.

There, emerging from the shadows like a nightmare made flesh, his flaming eyes piercing through the darkness. The once-human Necromancers and grotesque Ghouls that accompanied him only served to amplify the horror of his presence. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp around him, a testament to the power he wielded. "I've been waiting for you, young prince", the Dreadlord stated. "I am Mal'Ganis."

Uther, his gaze locked onto the monstrous figure before them, took a step closer to Arthas. "Is this the Dreadlord you spoke of?" he inquired, his voice laced with a mix of anger and disbelief.

Arthas nodded, his jaw set firmly. "It is," he confirmed, his eyes never leaving Mal'Ganis' fiery gaze.

Mal'Ganis' voice was like the hiss of a serpent, each word dripping with malice as he spoke. "Your valor at Andorhal was... noteworthy," he began, his flaming eyes never leaving Arthas' face. "And your capture of Kel'Thuzad was quite the achievement. It seems you have made a name for your self, young Prince."

The prince's grip on his war hammer tightened, his knuckles turning white. "What do you want?" he growled, his voice a mix of anger and defiance.

The Dreadlord stared at him. "To serve the will of my Master." he said, his words a twisted mockery of benevolence. "But your... interference here in Stratholme has been quite the nuisance. The Scourge has a purpose to fulfill. Whatever we have planned, does not end here."

Arthas' eyes blazed with anger as he gripped Light's Vengeance "And I'm ending it now!", he shouted, before he leapt at the Dreadlord.

Jaina called out. "Arthas, wait!"

Mal'Ganis' eyes widened in genuine surprise as Arthas soared through the air, his war hammer cleaving through the unholy minions that sought to stand between him and the Dreadlord. The Ghouls and Necromancers fell like wheat before the scythe of the harvester, their twisted forms no match for the prince's blazing fury. The ground trembled with each crushing blow, the very air crackling with the power of the Light that Arthas had harnessed.

When the prince's hammer swung towards him, Mal'Ganis raised a hand, imbuing it with a crimson energy that seemed to burn with the intensity of a dying star. The impact of the hammer against his palm sent a shockwave rippling through the air, the two forces clashing in a spectacle that could only be described as divine.

The Dreadlord was sent skidding backward, his huge frame momentarily off-balance. He chuckled darkly, his fiery gaze never leaving Arthas' own. "Perhaps the Dark Lord did not exaggerate your prowess, young prince," he mused, his voice carrying the echoes of a thousand tortured souls. "You have grown indeed."

Jaina and Uther watched the unfolding scene with a mix of awe and trepidation, their eyes wide at the unspoken history between the two combatants. Jaina took a step forward, her hand reaching out as if to protest, but her words remained lodged in her throat.

Arthas landed gracefully, his eyes never leaving the Dreadlord's. "Your master will not find the same amusement," he said, his voice a promise of vengeance. He knew this very well. "We're going to finish this right now, Mal'Ganis. Just you and me."

Mal'Ganis, his demonic form seemingly unfazed by the display of power, let out a deep, sinister chuckle. "Ah, my Prince," he said, his voice a dark symphony that seemed to resonate with the very soul of the prince. "Your journey has only just begun." His grin grew wider, the flaming eyes burning with a malignant amusement. "If you truly wish to destroy me, then come to Northrend. That is where our true battle shall unfold. Until then, I shall enjoy watching you dance to the tune of the Lich King's will."

With a flick of his wrist, he sent a wave of demonic energy at Arthas, forcing him to stumble backward. The Dreadlord's cackles grew louder as he began to fade away, his form becoming one with the very darkness he had spawned from. "Farewell, my prince," he taunted.

Arthas's hand tightened around the grip of his hammer, his eyes narrowed into slits of pure hatred. He wanted nothing more than to lunge at the retreating figure and bring the full brunt of his wrath down upon it, to end this tormentor of his world. But he had to remain calm. Mal'Ganis wanted him to follow him to Northrend, as it was the same tactic that led him to the Lich King's grasp.

Which would then lead him to the next name of his list despite his failure to dispatch the Dreadlord here: Frostmourne.

Uther and Jaina rushed to Arthas' side as the shadow of Mal'Ganis dissipated into the night. Their eyes reflected a mix of shock and concern as they looked upon the prince, who stood tall despite the trembling in his stance. "Are you alright, my prince?" Uther inquired, his voice filled with genuine worry.

Arthas took a deep breath, his chest heaving with exertion. "I am," he assured, his voice a little shakier than he would have liked. He met Uther's gaze, a hint of defiance in his eyes. "But there is no telling when he will come back."

Jaina's eyes searched Arthas' face, her curiosity piqued by the unspoken history between him and the Dreadlord. "Who...who is this 'Dark Lord' he spoke of?" she asked, her voice quivering slightly.

The prince paused, his eyes flickering with the flames of the torches that lit the battle-scarred street. Obviously he was not going to tell them of Ner'Zhul, at least not yet until they could figure out the information themselves first. "He speaks in riddles," Arthas said, his voice a low growl. "Nothing more, nothing less."

The mood grew tense as they exchanged glances, the weight of unspoken truths heavy in the air. "Should we pursue him?" Falric asked, his voice gruff with determination.

"Not yet, Falric," Arthas said, his voice heavy with a burden he chose not to reveal. He turned to Captain Marwyn, his gaze intense. "What of the civilians?"

Marwyn's expression was grim as he replied, "Most of them have been accounted for, my prince. Lord Goodwin saw to it that they were safely escorted to the keep during the chaos."

Arthas nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes. "And those who were infected?" he asked, referring to the villagers who had succumbed to the tainted grain.

Marwyn's report brought a heavy silence upon the group. "Ten percent out of the fifteen of those remaining have fallen to the plague," he revealed, his voice thick with sorrow. "But without the measures you have installed prior to this, the result might have been even more catastrophic, my Prince"

The only thing that comforted Arthas is that it did not result into a general culling that he had ordered in his previous life. But even still, it was still a disheartening experience, knowing he could not save them all.

Arthas surveyed the grim tableau of destruction that was once the vibrant heart of Stratholme, his eyes lingering on the broken remnants of buildings and the lifeless forms of both the undead and the villagers that had been claimed by the battle. He had seen too much death, too much suffering. He just wanted to save them all, but he knew that he could not. ".. I never wanted any of this.", Arthas murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow.

Uther stepped forward, his own expression a mask of compassion and understanding. He placed a firm hand on Arthas' shoulder, his eyes reflecting the same burden of command that his pupil bore. "Every life taken here was a sacrifice to save two in the lands beyond," he offered, his voice a balm to the prince's troubled spirit. "You did what you had to, lad. It was the least we could have asked for."

Falric's gaze was steely, his eyes never leaving Arthas' as he asked the question that hung heavy in the air. "What now, Prince Arthas?".

Arthas took a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking, his eyes distant and haunted. But there was still much to do, and two names of the list he had made remained. "We head to Northrend."

Jaina's eyes grew wide with surprise. "After the Dreadlord?" she questioned, her voice laced with caution. "But he said he would be expecting us. So it may be a trap"

The prince's gaze flickered to Jaina, and then to Uther. His jaw tightened as he clenched the handle of his war hammer. He had to make up some excuse so that Uther wouldn't feel the need to convince his father to recall his ships again. Fortunately, he had the alibi for it.

"We have received a plea for help," he revealed, his voice a mix of determination and deception. "A survivor from a dwarven expedition, led by Muradin Bronzebeard, reported that they are under siege by the undead. They call for reinforcements and rescue."

It was a sound reasoning. Because if asked to pick a story between that and Frostmourne, he would pick the more believeable alternative. Although his objective now is to destroy that damned blade.

Uther's eyes searched Arthas' face, his expression one of understanding and concern. "Are you certain this is not the same game the Dreadlord played?" he asked, his words measured. "Luring us into a trap to weaken our forces?"

Arthas met his gaze, his eyes clear and unwavering. "I cannot ignore the call of an old friend in need," he said, his voice steadfast. "We do not want King Magni to worry as to what had happened to his brother."

Jaina looked at the two men, her own eyes filled with doubt and confusion. "But what of the Dreadlord?" she pressed.

"Fear not, lass," Uther assured her, his hand still on Arthas' shoulder. "The Dreadlord's time will come. For now, we must ensure that the living do not suffer at the hands of the Scourge. Our priority is to save those who still have a chance."

Arthas looked at Uther, his expression a blend of urgency and solemnity. "I need you to stay here, my friend," he said, his eyes searching the paladin's gaze. "Look after the people of Stratholme. Ensure they reach the Capital City safely."

Uther studied Arthas for a long moment, reading the unspoken turmoil in his eyes. He knew Arthas was hiding something, something that weighed heavily on his conscience. "You can't face this alone, Arthas," he said, his voice filled with the warmth of concern. "If you need additional assistance, the Silver Hand will provide."

But the Prince wasn't budging. "You are needed here," he said firmly, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had made his peace with a difficult decision. "Jaina will remain to assist you. You two can keep the people safe and rally the remaining troops against any forces belonging to the undead lurking around the Kingdom."

Jaina stepped forward. "But what about you?" she asked, her eyes filled with a mix of worry and accusation. "So you're still heading to Northrend? Alone?"

The prince's gaze softened as he looked at her. "Yes", he replied. "To save my old friend and to make sure Mal'Ganis never threatened these lands again.", he looked away.

Uther observed him a bit more. "What are you not telling us, Arthas?" he asked, his voice tight with tension.

The prince's gaze flicked to Uther, then back to Jaina. "Only that is to make sure both of you remained safe and sound," he replied, his voice a whisper of regret. "This is something that I feel the need to do myself. And I only ask that you trust me in this."

As Arthas strode away, his cape billowing in the cold wind, Uther's gaze followed him, filled with a complex mix of emotions—pride, fear, and a hint of suspicion. Jaina's voice, tight with emotion, broke the silence. "Uther, he's endangering himself for what he knew," she confessed, her eyes searching the paladin's face for understanding.

Uther turned to face her, his own eyes reflecting the shadows cast by the flickering torchlight. "I know," he said heavily. "I share your concern, Jaina. There's a darkness in him, a secret that could threaten us all. And his journey to the north might bring light to what he chose to keep from others"

Her eyes searched his, looking for answers that he seemed to be withholding. "What is it?" she pressed. "What do you know?"

Uther met her gaze, his expression solemn. "Only what he chooses to reveal," he replied, his voice a solemn bass. "But I suspect it's tied to the very essence of the Scourge itself." He paused, his eyes distant. "But now is not the time for conjectures. Someone has to watch over him."

"But what if his judgment is clouded?" she countered, her voice laced with urgency. "What if he's walking into a trap? And the way Mal'Ganis spoke of a Dark Lord about his potential...it is disturbing to the core."

The paladin sighed, his face etched with lines of weariness. "Then we guide him back before he is completely lost." He looked at her intently. "I am giving you permission to accompany him in his journey. But be vigilant. If there's any truth to Mal'Ganis's words, we cannot afford to let our guard down."

Jaina nodded, her eyes steely with resolve. "I will," she promised, her voice unyielding. "I won't let him face this alone."

Uther's hand squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Very well," he told her. "But tread lightly. We can never know what we are about to face."

I figured I need to place Jaina and Uther in a situation where they did aid Arthas, but very reluctantly and have to face their own moral dilemmas. Given his behaviour in his previous life, his orders just speak absolute insanity from their perspective. And Arthas chose for a more practical and less radical approach in helping him deal with the plague. Like appealing with them of the situation at hand and not ordering them like a tyrant.