Galen led his team into the portal, a swirling vortex of ice and arcane energy that resembled a crystalline pillar.
Galen, a seasoned master of teleportation spells, navigated the brief transit with ease, experiencing no disorientation. However, the majority of his team, still recovering from their unexpected fall from the heights of Crystalsong Forest, required a moment to gather their bearings and steel their nerves before stepping into the unknown.
When the young warriors emerged from the portal, the breathtaking vista before them stole their breath away. They found themselves on a colossal platform of ice, a vast expanse of frozen grandeur that seemed to touch the very heavens.
This was the apex of Icecrown Citadel, the highest point in all of Northrend, the location of the legendary Frozen Throne!
The platform was stark and imposing, dominated by a single, treacherous path: a narrow, steep staircase carved from solid ice, its surface treacherous with frost and snow. The staircase ascended towards a throne of ice, a majestic seat of power carved into the heart of a towering iceberg that dominated the platform.
This throne, built upon the highest point of Icecrown Glacier, was a testament to the ambition and power of its creator, the Lich King. Perhaps Ner'zhul, in his twisted arrogance, had constructed this open-air platform to satisfy his desire to survey his domain, to gaze down upon the world he sought to conquer.
And there he was.
Seated upon the throne, the heroes of Azeroth beheld the figure of Arthas Menethil, the Lich King. He was clad in the iconic blue-black skeletal armor, the Helm of Domination resting upon his brow, radiating an aura of chilling power. In his gauntleted hand, he held the cursed runeblade Frostmourne, its surface shimmering with malevolent energy.
He sat upon the throne like a king, a monarch of death and decay. But as Galen and his team emerged from the portal, his eyes, burning with icy fire, fixed upon them. He rose from his throne, his movements fluid and purposeful, and began to descend the ice-carved steps, Frostmourne held before him like a scepter of doom.
"Arthas," Galen announced, his voice ringing with a mixture of defiance and grim determination. "We've come for you!"
Galen's words hung in the air, electrifying the atmosphere. Every member of the team tensed, their grips tightening on their weapons, their hearts pounding in their chests. Even the seasoned veteran Tirion Fordring felt a surge of adrenaline, his hand trembling slightly as he grasped the hilt of the Ashbringer. Jaina Proudmoore, her face a mask of conflicting emotions, gazed at her childhood friend with a complex expression, a mixture of sorrow, anger, and a desperate hope for redemption.
Arthas reached the bottom of the ice staircase, his heavy boots landing on the platform with a resounding thud. He surveyed the assembled heroes, his gaze sweeping across their faces with cold indifference.
"Galen," he said, his voice a chilling rasp that echoed across the frozen platform. "You've brought these rabble to challenge me? The self-proclaimed Marshal of the Alliance, the disgraced Prince of Stromgarde... where are your legendary Knights of the Silver Hand and Templar Knights? Have they abandoned you to face my wrath alone?"
Arthas's gaze lingered on the twenty-five-man team that Galen had assembled. Perhaps the only figures that truly registered in his mind were Tirion Fordring, the old minister of Lordaeron, a ghost from his past; Jaina Proudmoore, his former lover, her presence a painful reminder of his lost humanity; the rotund and enigmatic Chen Stormstout, his jovial nature a stark contrast to the grim reality of their situation; and the powerful orcish beastmaster Rexxar, his connection to the wild a threat to Arthas's dominion over the undead.
His contemptuous gaze, his dismissive tone, ignited a spark of anger in the hearts of the gathered heroes. They had endured countless trials, faced unimaginable horrors, and fought their way through the legions of the Scourge to reach this frozen summit. They were not "rabble." They were the champions of Azeroth, the last hope against the encroaching darkness.
"Arthas," Galen replied, his voice calm but firm, his eyes blazing with righteous fury. "These are the elite of the Alliance, the bravest and most skilled warriors Azeroth has to offer. Do not underestimate them, or you may find yourself facing a defeat you never imagined."
Galen's words were laced with a subtle challenge, a hint of the power he held in reserve. He spoke to Arthas as if they were old acquaintances, their shared history a complex tapestry of friendship and betrayal.
"Oh? Is that so?" Arthas scoffed, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "Should I put down Frostmourne, the blade that has claimed the souls of thousands, and beg for your forgiveness then, Galen? Should I plead for mercy from the 'righteous' Alliance?"
"We will grant you a swift death, Arthas," Tirion Fordring interjected, his voice trembling with righteous anger, his grip tightening on the Ashbringer. The old paladin could no longer bear Arthas's mocking words, the memories of his past atrocities flooding his mind. He remembered the countless corpses strewn across the ravaged lands of Andorhal and Lordaeron City, a gruesome testament to Arthas's cruelty, a vision that resembled a living hell!
He remembered the sight of King Terenas Menethil II, the noble ruler he had once served with unwavering loyalty, his former liege and friend, impaled and hung upon the city walls for over a year, his body desecrated and displayed as a trophy of Arthas's triumph. The memory of that horrific sight still haunted Tirion's dreams, fueling his burning desire for vengeance. When Lordaeron was finally reclaimed, Queen Calia Menethil, the rightful heir to the throne, had nearly fainted from grief at the sight of her father's desecrated remains.
And then there was Stratholme. If not for Galen's timely intervention, his strategic brilliance, and the desperate resistance of the city's brave citizens, the entire city would have become a charnel house, a twisted reflection of Arthas's twisted will.
"Hahaha!" Arthas laughed, the sound echoing across the frozen platform, a chilling and mocking sound that sent shivers down the spines of the assembled heroes. But as he laughed, his expression shifted, his mirth replaced by a cold, deep rage. The wind whipped around him, tossing his gray-white hair, his pale face highlighting the unnatural intensity of his burning blue eyes.
"Tirion Fordring!" Arthas snarled, his voice a guttural growl that resonated with unholy power. "Let me tell you personally, old man. When this is all over, when I stand victorious over your broken bodies, you will beg for my forgiveness, and I will deny you. Your pathetic pleas, your agonizing wails, will be the sweetest music to my ears, the ultimate proof of my absolute and unyielding power!"
After delivering his chilling pronouncement, Arthas wasted no time. Without waiting for Tirion or the others to react, he raised Frostmourne, the cursed runeblade humming with malevolent energy, and aimed it directly at Galen!
The runes etched into the blade, from the hilt to the very tip, flared to life, glowing with an eerie blue light.
Immediately afterwards, a beam of pure, icy energy shot forth from Frostmourne, a blast of concentrated cold that struck Galen squarely in the chest!
"Despicable!" Jaina cried out, her voice filled with anguish and despair.
"No!" Tirion roared, his voice a mixture of fury and disbelief.
The heroes of Azeroth watched in horror as their Grand Marshal, their leader, their last hope, was instantly encased in a massive block of ice, frozen solid by the unholy power of Frostmourne!
The moment Galen was entombed in ice, Tirion Fordring, his heart consumed by a burning rage, his grief and fury eclipsing all reason, grabbed the Ashbringer, the legendary blade of pure light, and charged towards Arthas with a primal scream. The righteous paladin was a whirlwind of fury, his every strike fueled by the memories of his fallen comrades, the countless lives lost to Arthas's tyranny.
Bang!
The wide, black-red blade of the Ashbringer collided with Frostmourne, the impact sending a shockwave of energy across the platform, a deafening metallic hum echoing through the frozen air.
However, it was immediately clear that Tirion was at a severe disadvantage. He was outmatched not only in terms of weapon quality, the Ashbringer, for all its power, could not compare to the sheer malevolence of Frostmourne, but also in terms of raw power.
Even though Fordring had "studied abroad" in Shattrath, communing with the Naaru and deepening his understanding of the Holy Light, he was still far from being a demigod. His power, though formidable, was no match for the might of the Lich King, who wielded the power of the damned and the souls of countless victims.
Arthas, his eyes gleaming with icy amusement, toyed with Tirion, deflecting his attacks with casual ease. Then, with a swift and brutal motion, the two warriors retrieved their greatswords and clashed again, their blades singing a deadly song of steel and sorcery!
"This strike," Tirion roared, his face contorted with fury, his voice filled with righteous vengeance, "is for King Terenas! For the thousands he slaughtered! For the kingdom he destroyed!"
Bang!
The two weapons collided again, the force of the impact sending tremors through Tirion's arms. But once again, Arthas easily blocked his attack, his movements fluid and effortless, his power overwhelming.
"Fordring," Arthas sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "You are far from enough to avenge your fallen king. I told you, the Holy Light cannot help you here! I am the King of Lordaeron, the rightful ruler of this land, and you have no right to judge me!"
"No!" Tirion roared, his face contorted with rage. "You are not the King of Lordaeron! The true Queen, Her Majesty Calia Menethil, has already ascended the throne in Lordaeron, and she rules with wisdom and justice!"
Hearing that familiar name, the name of his beloved sister, the blue soulfire in Arthas's eyes burned even more intensely. He stared at Tirion's face, his expression a mixture of disbelief and cruel amusement.
"My dear sister... she actually survived? And now she dares to steal what is rightfully mine, to claim my throne as her own?"
Arthas paused, his eyes gleaming with a cold, possessive fury. "But it doesn't matter," he continued, his voice a low growl. "Soon, I will return to Lordaeron, and I will reclaim the throne that is rightfully mine! I will purge the land of the living and raise it anew, under my eternal reign!"
"I will be the Deathlord of Azeroth!" he declared, his voice a chilling promise of the horrors to come. "And all will bow before my power!"
At this moment, the team members who had been momentarily stunned by Galen's freezing finally arrived, their shock replaced by a burning desire for revenge.
"You're dreaming, Arthas!" one of them shouted, their voice filled with defiance.
Brigitte Abbendis, Taelan Fordring, Renault Mograine, and Darion Mograine, the four young champions of Lordaeron, the best and brightest of their generation, rushed forward to support Tirion, their faces grim with determination.
"Heh... you think you can challenge me?" Arthas scoffed, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. He recognized these young warriors, the future leaders of Lordaeron, the very people who would have sworn fealty to him, had he not fallen to darkness.
If nothing unexpected had happened, he thought, a flicker of regret crossing his cold heart, these people would have pledged their loyalty to me the moment they inherited their titles, their power, their lands. But it seems it is not too late to claim their allegiance... in death!
"Get out of the way!" Fordring roared, his voice filled with desperation and fear for the lives of his son and nephews. He sensed the danger, the unholy power emanating from Arthas, and knew that they were no match for the Lich King.
Unfortunately, his warning came too late.
Arthas, with a swift and deadly motion, wielded Frostmourne, the runes on the ice-blue blade flaring to life once more. He swung the cursed blade in a wide arc, unleashing a torrent of dark energy, a wave of pure, unadulterated death!
This black energy soared through the air, devouring the surrounding light, a dark and malevolent force that resembled a black lightning bolt streaking across the frozen sky!
The next moment, the deadly energy struck its targets.
Brigitte Abbendis, standing in the first position, bore the brunt of the attack. The shield in her hand, a bulwark of faith and steel, shattered like glass. Her body was almost twisted apart by the sheer force of the blow, her bones cracking and her armor buckling. But fortunately, by some miracle, she activated her Divine Shield just in time, a golden barrier of pure light flashing into existence, protecting her from the full force of the unholy energy.
Taelan Fordring, standing behind Brigitte, was not so fortunate. The dark energy tore through his chest armor as if it were made of paper, the force of the impact shattering his ribs and rupturing his heart. Blood gushed from the gaping wound, staining the ice a dark and crimson red.
Renault Mograine, in a desperate attempt to protect his younger brother, threw himself in front of the blast, shielding Darion with his own body. He too was struck in the chest by the black energy, the massive wound nearly cleaving him in two, revealing his shattered heart, a grotesque and horrifying sight.
The three warriors, their bodies broken and bleeding, were hurled backwards, slamming heavily onto the frozen platform, their forms limp and lifeless.