Chapter 2: Second First Steps

After he had finished preparing, Arthas went to one place he never thought he would come back to again: the Silver Hand's training grounds, where he looked upon several Paladins and Knights training with them. As well as several familiar faces: General Abbendis and his daughter Brigitte, Halakh the Lifebringer, the Paladin Gavinrad who bestowed to him Light's Vengeance, Maxwell Tyrosus, Alexandros Morgraine and his son Darion. Some of whom he may or may not have personally slaughtered himself; he would forget their faces in a sea of numerous kills he had gathered in Frostmourne.

Then Arthas, saw him. Uther the Lightbringer, his mentor, his friend, and the very person whose death he had orchestrated in his relentless pursuit of power. For a moment, Arthas held his breath as he watched Uther speak with Paladins Dagren, Ballador and Magroth, patiently waiting for him to finish his conversation.

A bit nervous, Arthas approached his mentor as soon as his conversation with the three other Paladins. Uther, his gaze sharp and assessing, turned to him, a hint of a smile playing upon his lips. Ah, Arthas," Uther greeted warmly to the young man. "It has been a while since we have properly trained together. How are you, my Prince?"

"I...I am well, Uther," he lied, and he was anything but well. And Uther noticed how troubled his pupil had been but decided to check on him further. "The night's rest did me good."

The Lightbringer's gaze searched his pupil's eyes, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. If there is one thing Arthas knew, Uther knows when he is troubled or not. But this time, it seems, he does not notice. Good," Uther said I'm a gentle tonee. "We have much to catch up to, lad. And a good day of training will help us prepare in case the Orcs decided to go with their routine like the one we had at Strahnbrand."

Arthas nodded, though he felt uncertain at what lies before him as the last match he had with Uther ended with Arthas plunging Frostmourne into him and disposing his father's ashes. Yet, as he looked into his mentor's eyes, the faintest glimmer of hope sparked within him. He had to remember that the future he knew is not completely set.

"I am ready, Uther." Arthas declared with suppressed anticipation, though the tremor remained. "On your call."

Uther nodded with pride. "That is the spirit I expect from a prince of Lordaeron," he remarked, gesturing Arthas to come with him.

The two knights walked onto the training grounds, the cobblestones cool and unforgiving beneath Arthas' booted feet. He watched Uther, his movements fluid and powerful, a paragon of the Light's might. As they drew closer, Arthas felt the eyes of the other Paladins upon him, curious yet wary. He knew that he could not tell them of his true identity, of the horrors he had committed, but he also knew that he could not deceive them indefinitely.

The training commenced with a series of ritualistic warm-ups, the clang of steel against steel resonating through the crisp morning air as Uther led Arthas through a meticulously designed regimen that tested the limits of his physical and spiritual fortitude. Each swing of Light's Vengeance, each swing and parey, was executed with a precision. Uther, ever the observant teacher, noticed that Arthas' skills had sharpened to a razor's edge, his movements now a harmonious dance of power and grace.

"Your eagerness is commendable, Arthas," Uther said, his eyes gleaming with approval as they paused for a brief respite. "I see you have decided to withhold your usual tendencies when we train."

For a moment, Arthas remembered. He had always been the type to be brash and to be impulsive when things aren't going his way. And Arthas realized that he had been eerily calm and focused, something that Uther in the present found surprising

Arthas, sweat beading on his brow, took a deep breath. "Thank you, Uther," he replied, his voice even. "I have... found new purpose in my training. I strive to be the knight you believe me to be."

"I have always believed in you, my prince," Uther said, poising to renew their sparring match. "And I am proud to see you grow into the man I know you are destined to become."

The sparring grew more intense, the rhythm of their combat a silent symphony of clanging metal and grunts of exertion. Arthas' muscles burned with the effort, his mind racing with memories of battles against so many. His eyes never left Uther's, the man whose faith in him had never wavered, even when he had lost his own.

"You fight with the experience of a seasoned warrior," Uther noted, his own breaths coming in measured gasps. "Your technique...it's as if you've faced a hundred battles."

"Perhaps I have," Arthas said, his voice a mix of humor and melancholy. "I have devoted much of my time to personal training, seeking to improve my skills for the sake of our kingdom."

The lie hung in the air, a pall between them that neither dared to acknowledge. Uther looked at his pupil for a moment. Yet, all he found was the unyielding resolve of a man determined to walk a path of light. Satisfied for now, he nodded.

"Your progress is remarkable," Uther said, a hint of amazement in his tone. "Your commitment to the cause does you credit."

The training continued, the sun climbing higher in the sky. As the hours ticked by, Arthas felt the exhaustion of his physical form give way to the endless endurance of his tainted soul. Training with Uther was something he hadn't experienced in a decade, given his current form as a Paladin wielding the Light and not of the eternal frost and decay of a Death Knight and later Lich King.

"Your strength is inspiring," Uther said, his eyes reflecting the fierce pride he felt for his pupil. "It seems you have put into heat where a measure of a Paladin is not in his might, but in the purity of his intent."

Arthas nodded and s they rested, the echoes of their sparring fading into the background, Arthas took a seat on the cold stone bench beside Uther. He leaned heavily on his warhammer, the coolness of the metal a stark contrast to the warmth of the sun that spilled into the training grounds. Uther, handed him a waterskin, which Arthas took gratefully, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. For a moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the distant chirping of birds, a stark reminder of the life that continued beyond the castle walls.

In spite of his current condition, Arthas felt that he needed to speak with someone of his own troubles. Even if he couldn't tell them the truth. He had tried with his father, and perhaps Uther may be able to help him.

"Uther," Arthas began in a weary but earnest tone, "I've...I've seen things, felt power that I never thought possible. Power that could either save or destroy our world." He looked at Uther, seeking understanding, perhaps even guidance. "What is the measure of a man's strength if he succumbs to the very temptations he seeks to conquer?"

Uther regarded him with a solemn gaze, speaking from his own experience. "The pursuit of power has always been treacherous, lad," he said, his tone measured and wise. "One must be vigilant, for power, in and of itself, is neither good nor evil. It is the intent that shapes its use." He paused for a moment, looking at the sky as if it could provide more answrs. "The true measure of a strength lies in his ability to wield power without allowing it to corrupt his soul."

"But what if the path of doing what is right requires us to become the very monsters we fight?" Arthas pressed, though his tone sounded like he had been tormented. Though Uther fortunately didn't notice it. "How can one know where to draw the line between what is necessary and what is...excessive?"

Uther took a deep breath, cupping his chin. "It is a question that has plagued the hearts of many," he admitted, his gaze returning to meet Arthas' own. "Oftentimes, we are blinded to what we perceived as right and the drive to do what is necessary, but often forget the consequences in doing so. The road to damnation is often paved with good intentions, but we cannot allow fear of that path stop us as to where we stood. We must walk it with faith and courage."

The prince nodded thoughtfully. "And if, in the pursuit of what is right, one crosses that line?"

"Then, lad," Uther said, placing a comforting hand on Arthas' shoulder, "it is the responsibility of anyone to seek atonement, to find the strength to correct his or her mistakes if they wish to strive to do what is right." He squeezed Arthas' shoulder gently. "The Light is merciful, but it is also unyielding. It demands that we face our sins, learn from them, and emerge stronger, our faith unshaken."

Arthas leaned back, his eyes closed. "What if the price of power is too high?" he murmured, the question hanging in the air like a specter from his past. "What if the cost of victory is our very souls?"

"Then," Uther said firmly, "we strive to find another way. The ends do not justify the means if the means lead us into darkness." His gaze grew intense, his eyes boring into Arthas' soul. "Even the mightiest of all warriors is naught but a pawn of the void if he forsakes the light within himself."

The two knights sat in silence. Arthas still felt that he was under the shadow of his own past. Yet, with every word from Uther, the warmth grew stronger, a beacon of hope in a world that had once been consumed by shadow.

Arthas nodded solemnly. "Thank you, Uther," he said, his voice a mix of reverence and resolve. "Your wisdom is appreciated in these trying times."

"You are most welcome, Arthas," Uther replied in a gentle tone. "But wisdom is but a tool. It is your heart and your actions that will truly define who your are." He offered a reassuring smile. "Now, we have done enough for today. Your skills have improved markedly, and your dedication does not go unnoticed. Go, rejoin your comrades and share your insights. They would need your help as well, lad."

Arthas rose, breathing a sigh of relief. "I shall," he promised, his gaze lingering on Uther's for a brief moment longer. "I'll see to it that I can be the the man that I strive to be."

Uther's smile grew a touch wider. "I have no doubt," he said. "Do not let the the past cloud the brightness of your future."

With a final nod, Arthas turned and walked away from the training grounds, his booted footsteps echoing through the corridors of the castle. Uther's counsel was helpful, but he knew he needed more than just advice. He needed to act.

The barracks of the Lordaeron Army were bustling with activity as Arthas stepped into the cavernous room. He felt both dread and familiarity as he approached the two figures he knew all too well, Captains Falric and Marwyn. The sight of them alive and well brought a fresh wave of guilt and sorrow, remembering atrocities he had committed in his pursuit of power by turning them into the first Death Knights after him.

"My Prince," Falric said, bowing deeply, his expression one of unblemished respect.

Marwyn mirrored the gesture, his eyes meeting Arthas' with a hint of curiosity. "We are honored by your presence. What brings you to us today?"

Arthas swallowed hard, pushing down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. He could still feel the cold steel of their necks under his grip, the finality of their lives extinguished by his own hand. "I've come to be briefed on the state of our defenses," he replied. "I wish to ensure that we are prepared for any threats that may arise."

Falric, straightened up, focused and compliant. "As you know, the Horde is ever present, but currently, our main concern is the new Warchief, Thrall. A formidable leader, but his intentions seem to be focused on rebuilding his people rather than warring with the Alliance."

Marwyn nodded in agreement. "Our scouts have reported several orcish outposts scattered across the lands, but their numbers are manageable. We believe that our current forces are sufficient to handle any incursions without requiring the intervention of the Royal Guard."

Arthas nodded, at least they don't have to deal with them for now. "Good," he said, his voice even. "Keep me informed of any changes in the situation. We have to be prepared in case of any incursion from any hostile Orc clans."

The two captains exchanged a brief, questioning glance, but Arthas' demeanor was one of authority, and they had no reason to doubt his intentions. "As you command, Your Highness," Falric said, his tone deferential.

Marwyn stepped closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "We've had reports of disturbances in the countryside, however. Banditry and strange creatures have been sighted. It may be prudent to send a patrol to investigate."

"See to it," Arthas ordered. "I will not have our people suffer."

The two captains nodded, saluting before turning to carry out their duties. Arthas watched them go. Of course, he can't tell them of his own past as well. Yet, the sight of them, living and breathing, filled him with determination to prevent the horrors that awaited them.


Another day passed, and Arthas walked through the grand plaza of Lordaeron. The cheerful voices of the townsfolk melded into a cacophony as he approached the fountain, its crystalline waters a stark contrast to the crimson rivers of his past. He sat down on the cold stone edge, the chilly water splashing against his boots as he gazed into the reflection of his human form.

"What have I become?" he murmured to himself. "A prince who gave up his sanity, his honor and his soul. For what?." His eyes searched the surface, seeing not just the gleaming visage of his former self but also the shadows of the countless lives he had claimed in his quest for power.

The memories of Quel'thalas haunted him, the once-beautiful city of the high elves now a desolate wasteland, its citizens either dead or twisted into the Lich King's undying servants. The anguish of the elves' final moments echoed through his mind, a chorus of despair that no amount of power could silence. The screams of the innocents in Dalaran, whose only crime was to stand in his way as he sought the power to bring Archimonde into this world, pierced his soul like the sharpest of arrows. And Lordaeron itself, the gleaming bastion of humanity now a tomb for the very people he had sworn to protect.

The guard's approach was sudden yet expected as he called out, "Prince Arthas! Prince Arthas! The king requests your immediate presence! A delegation from Dalaran awaits you both in the throne room!"

Arthas' hand paused mid-air. He took a deep breath, pushing aside his troubles for the moment. With a nod to the guard, he rose to his feet. "Lead the way," he said, his voice a calm façade that belied the tempest within.

The guard, bowed slightly. "As you wish, Your Highness," he replied, before turning to lead Arthas back through the winding corridors of the castle.

With a final deep breath, he pushed the doors open, the grandeur of the throne room enveloping him like a warm embrace. The delegation from Dalaran, a mix of regal-looking mages in their flowing robes, stood before the throne, heads bowed in respect. His father, Terenas, sat upon the throne, his gaze expectant as he looked upon his son.

As Arthas took his seat beside Terenas, the room fell into a hushed silence, the clank of his armor echoing through the grand chamber. The Archmage, Dalar Dawnweaver, stepped forward with an air of importance. "Your Royal Highnesses," he began, "I come bearing a message from the Council of Six and Grand Magus Antonidas. The mages of Dalaran stand firm in our commitment to the Alliance, and we pledge our full support in these times of unrest."

Terenas nodded gravely. "We are ever grateful for the wisdom and power of the Kirin Tor," he stated. "Your dedication to our cause does not go unnoticed."

Dalar's gaze flickered to Arthas for a brief moment before continuing. "Moreover, we have received troubling reports of a mysterious plague that spreads from the north, one that neither we nor the priests of the Holy Light have been able to fully comprehend or combat. It is unlike anything we have encountered before, and we suspect it may be the work of darker forces."

Arthas felt a chill run down his spine, remembering that this is the time where the plague had begun to spread. He gripped the arm of his chair tightly, but managed to maintain a stoic expression.

Terenas, noticing his son's sudden tension, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We will vigilant," he declared. "We will not let such a scourge threaten our homeland."

Arthas took a deep, calming breath. "Indeed," he agreed, his voice steady once more. "If there is a new threat, then all options available are at the ready. If the plague is dangerous as they claim, then all measures have to seen through, especially if it concerns of infecting farmlands whose grain, if consumed, would prove very dangerous for our people. As well as a possible cure if it could be obtained."

Everyone looked surprised and skeptical at the ominous warning that the Prince had given them. Arthas knew he had to at least try and warn them and that he couldn't simply give them orders as to why. Along with trying to not make a scene that would cause a panic among his people.

The mages nodded in unison. "Your wisdom is appreciated, Prince Arthas," Dalar said with a slight bow. "We shall do everything in our power to aid you in this endeavor."

Terenas offered a warm smile. "Thank you, Archmage. We shall work together to ensure the safety of our people and the continued prosperity of the Alliance."

The delegation from Dalaran shared a few more words of counsel and assurance before taking their leave, their robes fluttering dramatically as they disappeared through the grand doors of the throne room. Arthas remained seated, though he couldn't help but relive the memory of the people consuming the tainted grain at Heartglen, and later that or Stratholme.

"Father," Arthas called out to Terenas, "I believe we should send scouts to investigate these reports before they would prove to be problematic than it already is."

Terenas regarded him with pride. "Indeed, my son," he agreed with him. "Your foresight does not disappoint. We shall act with haste and caution, ensuring that the people of Lordaeron are prepared for whatever may come."

Arthas nodded, his resolve unshaken. "I will personally oversee the preparations," he declared, rising to his feet. "We shall not be caught off guard."

The King watched as Arthas retreated to his quarters, but didn't press on as to what troubled his son.

As he entered his study, Arthas covered his face with both his hands. He knew that Kel'thuzad had played a pivotal role in the spread of the Scourge, the memory of Kel'thuzad's death and his own grim decision to revive the Necromancer by defiling the Sunwell as an ArchLich came flooding back to him.

But still, he knew Kel'thuzad was not the sole architect of his downfall; there were others. The name Mal'Ganis slithered through his thoughts like a venomous serpent. The Dreadlord, a master of deceit and manipulation, had been the one to lure him to Northrend, where Arthas fell into his grasp almost effortlessly because of his haste and impulsiveness to act that led him to their game.

"No," he murmured. "This time, I will not be so easily fooled."

He paced the room. The Dreadlords were known for their cunning, their ability to weave intricate webs of deception and corruption. If Mal'Ganis was involved in this new plague, it would not be a simple matter of cutting one head off the hydra.

"Father," he muttered, "How did I ever allow myself to become the very monster I sought to destroy?"

As he moped, his mind shifted to another individual he had dismissed. The Prophet, once a madman to his father's ears, now seemed eerily prescient. Arthas recalled the cloaked figure's frantic warnings, his eyes wild with a vision of doom that no one else could see. "Perhaps," Arthas whispered to himself, "his ramblings were not madness, but the truth obscured by the fog of time." He had to find out.

The Prophet had been a curious case, speaking in riddles that seemed to dance on the edge of prophecy and insanity. His predictions had been dismissed by the council and the king, but in his heart, Arthas had felt a nagging doubt. Now, with the possibility of a new crisis looming, those words seemed less like the ravings of a lunatic and more like a grim premonition.

"I have to go find him...but where?", he said to himself, staring at the ceiling. Perhaps he may know something that could help us...

He exited his quarters, inwardly hoping that there is a chance that he might appear once more to give his warnings. The castle terrace might be a good place to try and see if decided to come back and nag his father once more, hoping for any useful advice.

Only to find the one person who won his heart, but he broke hers during that one night at the Winter Veil celebrations a few years ago.

It was Jaina Proudmoore, her golden hair catching the early light as it danced in the wind. His heart stopped for a moment, a jolting reminder of the deep bond that had once existed between them, which he severed by the numerous atrocities he had committed all those years ago.

Jaina's smile grew tentative as she noticed the shadow that fell across Arthas' face. Her steps slowed, and she tilted her head slightly and looked concerned for him. "Arthas," she called out softly. The last he heard from her was her pleas to try and reach out to him when she personally assaulted Icecrown on her own to try and get to him, even when it was clear where there was nothing she could do.

Arthas took a deep breath, the memories of before coming back to haunt him still. The memory of Stratholme was a fresh wound, one that had never truly healed despite his transformation. The sight of the burning city, the screams of the innocents he had slaughtered, and the betrayal in Jaina's eyes when she had realized the depth of his descent into madness and her leaving him with Uther. And then there was the assault on Dalaran, where he had stood before the Council of Six, and claimed their lives in a bid for power that only released monstrosities of the deepest nightmares.

He could not even dare to think on what might have happened if Jaina had been with her brethren at the Kirin Tor. Would he have spared her? Or would he have even slaughtered her like the rest to become a thing that he could not imagine. Not even in his deepest nightmares.

As Jaina closed the distance between them, Arthas felt his heartbeat increase twicefold. He took a step back, almost gesturing to her to keep away from him, almost unable to face her. Can she ever forgive me" he wondered, his heart racing as she stopped just before him.

Her gaze was soft yet guarded, her eyes filled with a mix of warmth and wariness. "Are you all right, Arthas?" she asked, her voice a gentle caress that seemed to coax the truth from the very depths of his being.

He swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat like shards of ice. How could he explain it to her? It almost felt wrong for him to speak to her, not after everything he had done to hurt her when it was one of the things that he promised to himself that he wouldn't do."I am...well, Jaina," Arthas replied, his voice strained with the lie. "Merely thinking on what we should do in these troubled times." He offered a small, forced smile, hoping it would be enough to ease her concern.

She looked at him, the warmth in them not quite reaching their usual brilliance. "Yes," she said slowly, "it has been a while since we saw one another." She paused, her expression reading concern for him, but she kept it to herself. "But the rumors of this northern plague have reached even my ears in Dalaran. I have the feeling that it needs our immediate attention."

Arthas nodded solemnly. "Yes, the rumors of a plague are as ominous to say the least," he said, the memory of the Prophet's foreboding words echoing in his mind. "Speaking of omens, have you ever encountered the man who spoke of the shadow that had fallen?"

Jaina's gaze sharpened. "The Prophet, you mean?" she replied, sounding skeptical. "I have heard of him, yes. His visions and warnings have reached even the hallowed halls of Dalaran."

The prince leaned on the railing. "Do you believe there is truth to his words, Jaina?"

The mage's expression softened. "I cannot say for certain," she admitted. "In spite of Master Antonidas' dismissal of his claims, I couldn't help but sense unnatural but powerful energy within him, meaning there might be a hint of truth behind those cryptic prophecies he foretold."

"Could you tell me where he might be found?" he asked, hope coloring his tone. "His insights may hold the key to unraveling this mystery and preventing the shadow from engulfing us all."

Her blue eyes stared at his emerald ones. "He appears and vanishes like a specter," she somberly said to him. "I fear I cannot guide you to him, Arthas. His path is one that not even I can predict or follow."

The prince nodded slowly. "I understand," he said, his voice tight. "But if you ever see him again, could you let me know? I have to speak with him"

Jaina studied him for a moment, her gaze thoughtful and a hint of curiosity shimmering in her eyes. "Your interest in the Prophet is unexpected," she carefully said. "But I will do what I can to aid you."

Arthas felt a twinge of hope, the warmth of Jaina's willingness to help a stark contrast to the icy grip of his guilt. "Thank you, Jaina," he said, his voice earnest. "I just...needed help..."

The mage nodded at him with a small smile. "You're welcome, Arthas. But for now," she continued, "We have to be ready. The rumors of this plague grow louder by the day, and if we are to save our people, we have to act now"

"Yes," Arthas agreed, getting his mind out of the gutter. "I will be bringing along Captain Falric and a contingent of his men to assist us in the investigation. If we can learn what we can as soon as possible, then the sooner we act."

Jaina nodded, her expression turning grim. "The sooner that we can stop it before it grows..."

The two stood there for a moment longer. With a final nod of understanding, Arthas turned to leave, his steps echoing in the stillness of the terrace as he left Jaina to her thoughts. As he walked away, he couldn't help but think of the elusive Prophet, seeing the very truth behind his words.

"I shall not fail you," he murmured under his breath, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "Not again."


Edited: February 10, 2025