Despite her great control, she found herself smiling.

It was, Arthas mused as he rode upon the back of the skeletal, faithful Invincible toward Andorhal, a truly great irony that he who had slain the necromancer Kel’Thuzad was now charged with resurrecting him.

Frostmourne whispered to him, although he did not need the voice of the sword—the voice of the Lich King, as he desired to be known—to reassure him. There was no going back. Nor did he wish to.

After the fall of Capital City, Arthas had retreated into a dark version of a paladin’s pilgrimage. He had ridden the length and breadth of his land, bringing his new subjects to town after town and unleashing them upon the populace. He thought the Scourge, which Kel’Thuzad had called them, a fitting name. The instrument of self-flagellation of the same name, sometimes used by some of the more fringe elements of the priesthood, was meant to cleanse impurities. His Scourge would cleanse the land of the living. He stood straddling the worlds; he was alive after a fashion, but the Lich King’s soft whispers were calling him death knight, and the leeching of color from his hair and skin and eyes seemed to indicate that it was more than a title. He did not know; he did not care. He was the Lich King’s favored, and the Scourge was his to command, and in a strange, twisted way, he found that he cared for them.

Arthas now served the Lich King through one of his sergeants, a dreadlord, almost identical in form to Mal’Ganis. This, too, was irony; this, too, did not distress him.

“Like Mal’Ganis, I am a dreadlord. But I am not your enemy,” Tichondrius had reassured him. The lips twisted in a smile that was more of a sneer. “In truth, I’ve come to congratulate you. By killing your own father and delivering this land to the Scourge, you have passed your first test. The Lich King is pleased with your…enthusiasm.”

Arthas felt buffeted by twin emotions—pain and exultation.

“Yes,” he said, keeping his voice steady in front of the demon, “I’ve damned everyone and everything I’ve ever loved in his name, and I still feel no remorse. No pity. No shame.”

And in his heart of hearts, there came another whisper, but not from Frostmourne: Liar.

He forced the sentiment down. That voice would be silenced, somehow. He could not afford to permit the softness to grow. It was like gangrene; it would eat him, if he let it.

Tichondrius seemed not to notice. He pointed to Frostmourne. “The runeblade you carry was forged by my kind, long ago. The Lich King has empowered it to steal souls. Yours was the first one it claimed.”

Emotions warred within Arthas. He stared at the blade. Tichondrius’s word choice had not escaped him. Stolen. Had the Lich King asked for his soul in exchange for saving his people, Arthas would have given it. But the Lich King had asked no such thing; he had simply taken it. And now it was there, locked inside the glowing weapon, so close to Arthas that the prince—the king—could almost, but not quite, touch it. And had Arthas even gotten what he had set out to get? Had his people been saved?

Did it matter?

Tichondrius watched him closely. “Then I’ll make do without one,” Arthas said lightly. “What is the Lich King’s will?”

It had been, it turned out, to rally what was left of the Cult of the Damned in order to have aid for a greater undertaking—the recovery of Kel’Thuzad’s remains.

They lay, he had been told, in Andorhal, where Arthas himself had left them, a puddle of reeking, decaying flesh. Andorhal, where the shipments of plagued grain had come from. He recalled his fury as he had attacked the necromancer, but felt it no longer. A smile curved his pale lips. Irony.

The buildings that had once been a conflagration were now charred timbers. No one save the undead should be here now…and yet…Arthas frowned, drawing rein. Invincible halted, as obedient in death as he had been in life. Arthas could glimpse figures moving about. What little light there was on this dim day glinted off—

“Armor,” he said. There were armored men stationed about the perimeter of the cemetery and one near a small tomb. He squinted, and then his eyes widened. Not just living beings, not just warriors, but paladins. And he knew why they were here. Kel’Thuzad, it seemed, drew the interest of many.

But he had dissolved the order. There shouldn’t be any paladins, let alone gathered here. Frostmourne whispered; it was hungry. Arthas drew the mighty runeblade, lifted it so the little army of acolytes who accompanied him could see and be inspired by it, and charged. Invincible sprang forward, and Arthas saw the shock on the faces of the cemetery’s guardians as he bore down on them. They fought valiantly, but in the end, it was futile; and they knew it, he could see it in their eyes.

He had just tugged Frostmourne free, feeling the sword’s joy in taking another soul, when a voice cried, “Arthas!”

It was a voice Arthas had heard before, but he couldn’t quite place it. He turned toward the speaker.

The man was tall and imposing. He had removed his helm, and it was the thick beard that jogged Arthas’s memory. “Gavinrad,” he said, surprised. “It has been a long time.”

“Not long enough. Where is the hammer we gifted you with?” Gavinrad said, almost spitting the words. “The weapon of a paladin. A weapon of honor.”

Arthas remembered. It had been this man who had placed the hammer at his feet. How clean, how pure, how simple it had all seemed then.

“I have a better weapon now,” Arthas said. He lifted Frostmourne. It seemed to pulse eagerly in his hand. A whim struck him, and he obeyed it. “Stand aside, brother,” he said, an odd gentleness tingeing his voice. “I’ve come to collect some old bones. For the sake of that day, and for the order to which we both belonged, you will not come to harm if you let me pass.”

Gavinrad’s bushy brows drew together and he spat in Arthas’s direction. “I can’t believe that we ever called you brother! Why Uther ever vouched for you is beyond me. Your betrayal has broken Uther’s heart, boy. He would have given his life for yours in a second, and this is how you repay his loyalty? I knew it was a mistake to accept a spoiled prince into our order! You’ve made a mockery of the Silver Hand!”

Fury rose in Arthas, so swift and so intense he almost choked on it. How dare he! Arthas was a death knight, the hand of the Lich King. Life, death, and unlife—all fell within his purview. And Gavinrad spat upon his offer of safety. Arthas gritted his teeth.

“No, my brother,” he growled softly. “When I slay your body and raise it as my servant, and make you dance to my tune, that, Gavinrad, will be a mockery of the Silver Hand.”

Grinning, he beckoned tauntingly. The undead and the cultists who had accompanied him waited silently. Gavinrad did not rush in, but gathered himself, praying to the Light that would not save him. Arthas let him complete his prayer, let his weapon glow, as Arthas’s own hammer had once done. With Frostmourne gripped tightly in his hand and the Lich King’s powers surging through his dead-not-dead body, he knew that Gavinrad did not stand a chance.

Nor did he. The paladin fought with everything he had, but it was not enough. Arthas toyed with him a little, easing the sting that Gavinrad’s words had caused, but soon tired of the game and dispatched his erstwhile brother in arms with a single mighty sword blow. He felt Frostmourne take in and obliterate yet another soul, and shivered slightly as Gavinrad’s lifeless body fell to the earth. Despite what he had promised his now-vanquished foe, Arthas let him stay dead.

With a curt gesture he ordered his servants to begin retrieving the corpse. He had left Kel’Thuzad to rot where he had fallen, but someone, doubtless the necromancer’s devout followers, had cared enough to put the body in a small crypt. The acolytes of the Cult of the Damned now rushed forward, finding the tomb and with effort pushing aside the lid. Inside was a coffin, which was quickly lifted out. Arthas nudged it with his foot, grinning a little.