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"No! Arthas, don't pick up that sword!"

"This is my destiny, Jaina."

Shards of shattered ice pierced Jaina's magical shield and her body. She fell to the ground, drenched in blood. Arthas knelt beside her, holding the longsword that radiated an eerie aura, and made one final attempt to heal her.

Sadly, it was all in vain. In the end, Jaina lost too much blood and breathed her last in Arthas's arms.

The last words she heard before losing consciousness and sinking into darkness came from Arthas:

"I'm sorry... but I have no choice."

Gasp!

Jaina abruptly pushed herself upright in bed. Her silk blanket slowly slipped off her, leaving the mage sitting back against the bed in her white underclothes, her forehead covered in cold sweat.

"Was that... a dream?" Jaina pressed a hand to her forehead, her thoughts still lingering in the nightmare.

I dreamed of Arthas? The snow and bitter wind outside... was I in Northrend with him? Where was that cave, and what was that sword?

Questions surfaced in Jaina's mind one after another. The dream had been unnervingly real. She could even feel the pain and cold of the splintering ice shards piercing her body.

Of course, what left the deepest impression on Jaina was the Runes Longsword wreathed in an evil aura. Blue flames burned in the hollow eyes of the goat-headed demon on its hilt. A single glance made her feel as though her soul might be sucked away.

"No... something's wrong..." Jaina put on a coat and paced around her cabin. Far from soothing her, the familiar sound of waves at sea only heightened her anxiety.

In the realm of magic, dreams this vivid carried strong prophetic implications. An Archmage with ample mana and a sound mind would not have such a nightmare for no reason.

Jaina tried to recall the specific features of the setting in her dream, only to discover that she had no memory of them at all. All she could remember were herself, Arthas, and the Runes Longsword.

"Arthas..."

"Arthas, are you sure leaving camp like this is a good idea?" Brann Bronzebeard was a little bewildered. He had thought himself bold enough, yet Arthas had charged straight into the snowfields with only a handful of personal guards.

"Don't worry, Brann. I have a teleportation scroll. It'll definitely get us out."

"In my years of experience, teleportation scrolls tend to be... er, less than reliable." After so many years of adventuring, what hadn't Brann Bronzebeard seen? Faulty teleportation scrolls were practically an everyday occurrence.

"Don't tell me you've been using old stock from Ironforge's storerooms..." Arthas had never encountered a malfunctioning teleportation scroll, unless someone had forcibly blocked teleportation. Few people on Azeroth could accomplish that at present, and Mal'Ganis certainly couldn't.

"How can you call them old stock? They're only Dalaran scrolls from fifty years ago."

"Fifty years?! Don't you know these standard-issue teleportation scrolls have a shelf life of fifteen years at most? It's sheer dumb luck you're still alive!" Arthas was stunned. This professional adventurer actually dared to use magical products more than thirty years past their expiration date?

Wasn't he afraid that a scroll might still partially work, only to teleport away his upper or lower half?

Brann's weathered face reddened, and he stammered, "Ahem, the Explorers' League is a little short on funds."

"I remember King Magni spearheaded the founding of the Explorers' League. How could it be short on funds?" A question occurred to Arthas.

"Didn't Muradin take a group to Kalimdor for a survey? Then we discovered a vast complex of ancient ruins in the Desolate Land. Those ruins are even older than the elves'." Brann explained, "But the Dark Iron Dwarves discovered the site too, forcing us to suspend our excavations. A large portion of the League's funds went toward resolving the problems there."

The ruins in the Badlands? Arthas hadn't expected the dwarves to have uncovered part of the truth of creation so early. Still, this was not the time to disturb whatever slumbered within. Once he had repelled the undead, killed those damned demons, and delayed the Burning Legion's advance, he would consider approaching those "old relics" left over from ancient times.

The snowfields of Dragonblight seemed endless. Everything was a sea of white, with only distant mountains and animal carcasses visible.

"Arthas, something feels wrong," Brann said, noticing an oddity. "It's too quiet here. Even in a snowfield, there should be wildlife."

[Revenge of the Holy Light] was the warhammer selected from the Silver Hand's armory to serve as Arthas's current weapon. Unlike [Might of Menethil], it could strengthen its wielder's power of the Holy Light, and when a Paladin's emotions ran high, it would amplify his Holy Light further.

Arthas had chosen it simply because its ability to amplify the Holy Light allowed it to withstand his excessively powerful Holy Light better than other warhammers could.

He couldn't find a better replacement for the time being. Powerful weapons weren't cabbages lying around for anyone to pick up. Otherwise, Arthas wouldn't have risked facing a Dreadlord head-on to seek out [Frostmourne].

All things considered, obtaining [Frostmourne] was already relatively easy. The Lich King and the Nathrezim intended to use the sword to corrupt Arthas in the first place, so they were practically giving it away.

Brann clearly didn't see it that way. Ever since Arthas had told him about [Frostmourne]'s abilities, he had considered the sword a tremendous danger. Yet no matter how he tried to dissuade him, Arthas insisted on taking a look. To keep his friend safe, Brann had no choice but to accompany him.

After searching the snowfields for an unknown length of time, Arthas and the knights had also dealt with several wandering undead. Just as they were nearing the border of Zul'Drak, the territory of the Frost Troll empire, Arthas suddenly felt a stirring in his soul.

Here, Dragonblight's wind and snow abruptly intensified. Drifting snowflakes obscured their vision, turning everything white. Brann held down his hat to keep the snow from blowing into his face. Then he heard Arthas speak.

"We're here."

"Here? Where?" Brann shouted. The howling north wind filled his ears. It was in conditions like these that dwarves developed their booming voices.

"Halfway through destiny."

Arthas's reply left Brann baffled, but the prince gave him no time to ponder it. Holding his warhammer head-down, he slowly advanced through knee-deep snow toward the barely visible edge of the mountains.

The personal guards of the Secret Council Knights followed close behind him. Seeing this, Brann could only follow as well.

Gradually, the snowfall eased. The first thing Brann saw was a cavern at the edge of the mountains. Its pitch-black entrance resembled a ravenous beast waiting to devour someone. His years of adventuring immediately filled him with foreboding.

Brann hurried to catch up with Arthas and asked urgently, "Arthas, where are we?"

"Where [Frostmourne] lies."

"You really came looking for that demonic sword?!" Brann paled with alarm. "Have you got a death wish? You know something's wrong with that sword, and you still came?"

"Brann, I'll explain once this is over." Arthas stationed the Secret Council Knights at the entrance, then continued speaking to the dwarf. "Are you coming inside with me to see the cursed runic sword, or staying out here with them?"

Brann glanced back at the silent knights, who stood like black statues, and sighed. "I'll go with you. If something happens, at least I'll be there to help."

What made Brann willing to risk himself this time was not his intense curiosity, but his concern for his friend and his commitment to him. A dwarf would never abandon a friend and flee alone.

"Don't worry. Nothing will happen."

Arthas's words did little to reassure Brann. He still felt that something was deeply suspicious about this whole affair. Perhaps he had fallen under some curse the moment he learned the name [Frostmourne].

The two entered the dark cavern together. Arthas raised a torch to illuminate the path beneath their feet.

"Hah..." Brann's breath condensed into mist flecked with ice. He realized that the temperature inside was far lower than outside.

Moreover, this cold was different from ordinary low temperatures. After walking for a while, Brann felt even his thoughts slowing down. He quickly understood that magic seemed to be influencing the chill.

"This cave is filled with dark magic... Arthas, I'm afraid we've come to the wrong place."

Arthas enveloped Brann in a ray of Holy Light after hearing this. "I know. Stay close. My Holy Light will help you."

"Ha, that's much better." Protected by Arthas's Holy Light, Brann felt the stiffness leave his limbs and thoughts, restoring him to peak condition.

Yet barely two steps later, his nose struck Arthas's hard armor. Brann stepped back, clutching his face. "I think you'd better warn me before you stop..."

"We've run into a little trouble, Brann."

Stopping at the edge of a cliff, Arthas held his torch out over the drop. At the bottom of the cavern's naturally formed ring-shaped steps, he saw an eerie blue glow in the darkness. But clusters of light also floated along the path leading down.

Brann narrowed his eyes, studying the strange lights in the cavern. "Are those ghosts?" he asked quietly. "Are they [Frostmourne]'s guardians?"

"Whatever they are, we may need to prepare for battle, Brann."

The eternally frozen continent of Northrend was not merely a forbidden land for the living. It also held the "gateway" between the [Shadowlands], the realm of the dead, and the Physical World. Farther north, at the summit of Icecrown Glacier, lay the weakest boundary between those two planes.

Drawn by the Shadowlands, the souls of the dead throughout Azeroth unconsciously gravitated toward Northrend. Combined with [Frostmourne]'s own powerful pull on souls, this caused some spirits that should have passed into the Shadowlands to linger here.

Arthas understood, however, that these souls were not evil spirits. Nor was the thing they guarded this cursed runic sword. It was the living who ventured deep into the cavern.

They drove away all living visitors, lest the ignorant touch [Frostmourne] and fall under the sword's control and curse.

Souls were mysterious things in their own right, and the dead perceived the world differently from the living. Thus, they could sense a truth ordinary people could not-

The first victim [Frostmourne] would devour was the first living being to take hold of the sword.

Arthas noticed that many of the Ancient Spirits beside the sword had human forms. It seemed these human ancestors had sensed something through some unseen force and were waiting here for his arrival.

With that thought, Arthas handed his warhammer to Brann. Brann stared at him in surprise, not understanding why he had done so.

"[Revenge of the Holy Light] can amplify the Holy Light, but that also means it cannot channel another kind of power." Seeing Brann's confusion, Arthas explained.

"Another kind of power?"

Brann caught the key words in Arthas's statement. Just as he was about to ask what they meant, the transformation that followed made his pupils contract and every hair on his body stand on end.

A sensation called [Death] seemed to coil around Brann's heart, making him feel as though he were facing the most critical life-or-death moment of an adventure.

The old dwarf watched as Arthas's golden hair slowly turned a lifeless white. Surging dark magic replaced the warm Holy Light. Under its influence, even Arthas's blue-and-gold cloak began to change, as though a layer of shadow had settled over it.

Brann could scarcely believe his eyes, but it was all truly happening. His hands tightened around the warhammer, every muscle in his body tensed, and he spoke in a muffled voice from deep in his throat.

"You... Arthas... no, no, no! Who are you really?"