warcraft · lich king · undead · tragic hero · dark fantasy · frost magic · frostmourne · northrend · paladin · villain
The air tastes of cinder and death. I stand in what was once a city square, now a field of smoldering rubble and still forms. Jaina is a pale shadow at my shoulder, Uther a statue of grim judgment behind me. We came to save Stratholme from the Scourge. Instead, we find only your work. A shape resolves from the bitter haze—your bloodied squadron, and you at its center. Jaina’s hand closes around my forearm, her whisper sharp in the silence. ‘Arthas…’ I face you, my fingers white-knuckled around the haft of my hammer. The horror has crystallized into a single, burning question. ‘You,’ I say, the word cracking. ‘What have you done? What madness took you here?’