The choice

"Where... is this?"

Thassarian led his warhorse through the ruins of the Necropolis. The armor and weapons scattered around him showed that a great battle had once taken place here.

The green glow he had seen last night had come from the Necropolis crystals scattered across the snow. Now, there was nothing here but rubble and snowdrifts.

Apart from signs that undead had been active here, Thassarian found nothing useful.

But he did not give up immediately. Instead, he kept searching through the rubble for a while longer, hoping to find a useful clue.

While Thassarian searched the ruins, his warhorse suddenly began pacing uneasily, snorting in short, sharp bursts.

Noticing the horse's strange behavior, Thassarian immediately rose from the rubble and drew the longsword at his waist. He glanced around, then picked up a reasonably intact shield from the ground.

"Hey-hey! Quiet!"

Thassarian tried to soothe his warhorse. He did not know why it was acting as though it had sensed danger, but whether that danger was a wild beast or an undead creature, its agitation would attract it sooner or later.

Yet no matter what Thassarian tried, the warhorse only grew more restless. Its tail lashed rapidly, and its forehooves pawed incessantly at the snow.

Thassarian realized that the danger might be far more serious than he had thought. This warhorse had been specially bred by Lordaeron's First Legion. An ordinary wild beast would not frighten it this badly.

Besides, there were signs of undead activity in this camp. Thassarian did not think any wild beasts should be nearby... which meant...

"Were you looking for me, insect?"

An enormous shadow fell over Thassarian, immediately stirring an ominous sense of familiarity within him-it seemed to be the shadow cast by some creature's wings.

"!"

Without the slightest hesitation, Thassarian abandoned any thought of staying. He quickly swung into the saddle, drew a dwarven pistol from his waist, and fired behind him without even looking.

Bang-clang!

First came the dull crack of the gunshot, followed by the sound of the bullet striking runic armor.

The Dreadlord stood amid the ruins of the undead camp, watching Thassarian gallop away. He had no intention of giving chase.

"This human is too weak... he wasn't the one who destroyed this base."

The Dreadlord flexed his clawlike fingers and raised his arms, intending to summon the surrounding dead souls with magic and examine what had happened here.

But the spell summoned no souls at all. A hint of confusion crossed the Dreadlord's face-he was not a demon versed in necromancy like Mal'Ganis.

Still, he knew that his magic had failed to find any usable souls. He would not be able to learn what had happened here through this method.

"Mal'Ganis's soul is gone as well... did he fake his death and flee, or was he banished from Azeroth?"

The Dreadlord rubbed his chin as he pondered Mal'Ganis's whereabouts. He felt no sorrow over his companion's fate; if anything, he took some pleasure in his misfortune.

It would be one thing if Mal'Ganis had faked his death. But if his body had been destroyed and his soul banished back to the Twisting Nether, he would certainly suffer. The master of the Burning Legion would not tolerate failure after failure.

The Dreadlord who had come to investigate Mal'Ganis's whereabouts was named Detheroc. He had originally been tasked with monitoring the undead Scourge's movements in Northrend, but Mal'Ganis had suddenly lost contact with them yesterday.

Their superior, Tichondrius, the leader of the Dreadlords, was currently in the Eastern Kingdoms, plotting to secure something that could summon the Burning Legion. He had no time to deal with Mal'Ganis, so he had sent Detheroc to investigate.

Tichondrius did not care whether Mal'Ganis was dead or alive. He had only instructed Detheroc to find out what had happened and, if a powerful enemy was involved, to avoid confronting them for the time being.

Their primary task was to help the Burning Legion invade Azeroth. If they failed, the Burning Legion would show them no mercy, even if their souls managed to escape back to the Twisting Nether.

Detheroc found Mal'Ganis's disappearance deeply suspicious. Not even a remnant of a soul remained where he had last appeared, and that made the distrustful Dreadlord frown.

Though he still did not know exactly what had happened, Detheroc believed that the fool Mal'Ganis had most likely gotten himself killed-he had put far too much faith in his useless necromancy.

I need to go back and warn the others... who knows whether Mal'Ganis's death had something to do with the powerful beings who still remain in this world.

Detheroc thought again of the human who had been investigating this place. A mortal appearing on Northrend's frozen plains was strange enough in itself.

Perhaps I can get some information out of him...

With a beat of his wings, Detheroc shot into the sky. The powerful gust scattered the surrounding snow, revealing a fragment of runic armor wedged beneath a large chunk of rubble-something neither Thassarian nor Detheroc had noticed.

The magical runes on it had long since been utterly destroyed by the Holy Light, and the armor itself had been smashed to pieces. As a result, Detheroc had sensed nothing unusual.

Thassarian galloped onward on his warhorse, his mind churning with alarm and uncertainty. Mal'Ganis is still alive? Could His Highness be in danger?!

In his panic, the young warrior had failed to distinguish one Dreadlord from another. He had mistaken Detheroc for the already-dead Mal'Ganis.

Knowing he was no match for a Dreadlord, he wondered why he had been allowed to escape again. But what Thassarian had to consider now was whether he should return to inform Brann and the First Legion or continue following Arthas's trail.

After a fierce internal struggle, Thassarian clenched his fist, the leather of his gauntlet creaking.

I can't do this alone... I have to tell everyone what's happening here.

At last, he made his decision. Now that he had a lead, whether he lived or died would mean nothing if he failed to pass the information on to everyone else.

He had not come out here to play the hero, but to repay Arthas. If he had the chance to fight alongside His Highness, he would gladly do so, even if it meant dying on the battlefield.

But pressing farther now would most likely mean throwing his life away. Only by mobilizing the First Legion's garrison would he have a chance of finding Arthas's exact whereabouts and providing meaningful aid.

With that settled, Thassarian immediately urged his horse toward the edge of the snowfields. He had to return to Howling Fjord and inform the troops stationed there that His Highness was very likely in danger.

What Thassarian did not know, however, was that a pair of malevolent eyes in the sky above him was watching his every move.