Ashbringer

Many remember the bells of Lordaeron. They rang once when Orgrim was defeated, and again when Turalyon successfully closed the Dark Portal during his expedition to Draenor. The melodious tune belongs only to those who return victorious, to heroes, and only when important national events occur—royal weddings, the birth of an heir, and the King's funeral.

Arthas Menethil never imagined he would receive such a welcome; he was simply... going home.

He sent back a message before his triumphant return, recounting how he discovered the mastermind behind the plague, how he found and killed Kel'Thuzad —things his father probably already knew.

'But he doesn't trust you, does he?'

The voice in his mind reminded Arthas. Yes, Terenas had heeded Uther's advice and ordered his troops to withdraw. His vengeance had almost been ruined.

On this day of triumphant return home, he strode towards the capital, crossed the lowered drawbridge, and was greeted by the cheers and applause of the people—grateful that their beloved Prince had rescued the entire nation from peril. He accepted it all as a matter of course, but his heart was only set on seeing his long-lost father.

"I long to speak with you, Father, and to tell you everything that has happened to me," he wrote in the letter. "I am certain that you have spoken with Nathanos and Uther. I can imagine what they said to sow discord between us. I assure you that everything I did was entirely for the best interests of Lordaeron. In the end, I vanquished the demon that brought the plague to our people, and returned in triumph, ushering in a new era for the kingdom."

Those following him were all cloaked in black and as silent as he was. No one seemed to expect them to respond to the enthusiastic welcome. Crowds of welcome were everywhere, not only of humans, but also of Elf, Dwarf, diplomats of the Gnome, nobles, and other important figures. They filled not only the courtyards but also the watchtowers. Pink, white, and red rose petals rained down on the returning hero...

Quel'Thalas also has such a flower season? Nathanos, wandering in Eversong Forest, looked up in amazement at the petals falling from the tall trees, more falling with each gust of wind. He imagined Alleria standing before him on their wedding day, petals falling on her radiant smile, her lifting her cheek to kiss him.

Alleria...

Nathanos was moved by the scene and caught a red petal in his hand. He caressed it, and a crack appeared in it...

Similarly, another petal landed in the Prince's hand. Arthas frowned; the petal in his hand began to dry, turning a lifeless brown, and then the entire petal was destroyed. He quickly and disdainfully tossed the inanimate object aside and continued on his way.

No one could stop him. Arthas had thought he would encounter Uther and Nathanos; he was still eager to see what expressions those two would have upon seeing him. Unfortunately, they weren't there. Pushing open the familiar doors to the throne room, he strode forward. He glanced quickly at Terenas, gave the King a smile almost entirely hidden by his hood, then knelt obediently, holding Frostmourne before him, its sharp point striking the stone slabs of the ground.

"Ah, my child. I am so glad to see you back safe and sound," Terenas said, rising unsteadily.

Terenas looked unwell, Arthas thought. The events of the past few months had aged him considerably. His hair was grayer, and his eyes were filled with weariness. He seemed to have expended a great deal of energy cleaning up the mess in Stratholme.

But it will be alright soon.

'You no longer need to sacrifice for your people, nor bear the pressure of that crown. I will take care of everything.'

Arthas abruptly looked up and stood up, his armor clanging. He pulled down his hood, observing his father's reaction. Terenas's eyes widened when he saw the change in him.

The Prince's hair, once a dazzling gold like the sun, was now a ghastly white, like that of bones. He knew his face was just as pale, as if all his blood had been drained away.

'It's time!'

Frostmourne whispered in his heart. Arthas charged toward Terenas, who stood frozen on the steps. Several guards stood in the hall, but they were clearly no match for the two followers who had entered with Arthas. Marvin and Farek swiftly dispatched the guards. Arthas strode confidently up the carpeted steps and seized his father's arm.

He drew his sword. The runes on Frostmourne gleamed with an impatient, cold light. Then came another whisper, but this time it didn't come from the Rune Sword, but from a memory...

... King Llane, the father of King Varian King Wrynn of King of Stormwind, was assassinated by a trusted friend.

Arthas's gaze turned cold, and that memory came to an abrupt end.

"What are you going to do, my child?"

"Inherit your throne... Father."

Then Frostmourne's thirst was satisfied, briefly.

Arthas immediately went outside and returned to the courtyard, without any emotion.

They've all gone mad!

The revelry turned into slaughter, the unbridled celebration into a desperate struggle for survival. Those who had waited hours to welcome the Prince's return now lay mostly in pools of blood. Blood congealed on their gruesome wounds, limbs broken, torsos shattered. All were equal before this horrific death.

Arthas didn't care about the ultimate fate of these men—whether they would be fed to the ravens or become his new subordinates. He left that to his lieutenants, Farek and Marvin, who were as pale as their master, and several times more ruthless. Arthas continued along the path he had come from, and many voices echoed in his mind once more.

'... This isn't an apple tree infested with worms, this is the entire city of living people!'

'If you die, what will become of this kingdom?'

'You lied to your people and betrayed your mercenaries! You're nothing like the kid I used to know, nothing like King Terenas' son.'

This power is yours. Do what you want.

Arthas sneered; the last sound brought him immense pleasure.

He stood on high ground, pointing the sword forward, and declared, "This kingdom is about to be destroyed, and a new order of rule will rise from the ruins, shaking the very foundations upon which this world depends for its survival."...

Ironforge

The Great Forge is universally recognized as the best choice for forging divine weapons. Of course, besides excellent forging conditions, a Master Blacksmith skilled in weapon crafting is also essential. King Magni of Ironforge, though a King, was jokingly called a blacksmith by his two brothers, a view Magni himself readily accepted. He once believed the warhammer and battleaxe he forged for his brother Muradin Bronzebeard were his most satisfying creations, but today, he was convinced his opinion would change. Nearly six months had passed, countless amounts of refined iron and raw materials had been used, and he had personally overseen every step. He even made a selfish decision—during this time, no one but himself was allowed to use the Great Forge.

"It's almost finished, almost there!" Magni said, watching the leaping flames and undulating heat waves inside the furnace. Few people could endure such high temperatures.

"Give it your all, good girl!" Magni threw the prepared neutralizing agent into the furnace again. The magma boiled, and the hot air crashed against the furnace with a roar. Then, the gas pump used to control the temperature was also pushed away by the enormous energy.

Magni was knocked away, but he burst into maniacal laughter in that instant.

"Success!!!"

The intense energy destabilized everything around them; Ironforge seemed to have been struck by an earthquake. Magni scrambled to his feet and shouted at the nearly paralyzed forging system, "Ashbringer! Ashbringer!"