“Come along now, necromancer,” he said teasingly as the casket was borne into the back of a vehicle referred to as a “meat wagon.” “The powers that you once served have need of you again.”

“Told you my death would mean little.”

Arthas started. He had become somewhat accustomed to hearing voices; the Lich King, through Frostmourne, whispered to him almost constantly now. But this was something different. He recognized the voice; he had heard it before, but arrogant and taunting, not confidential and conspiratorial.

Kel’Thuzad.

“What the…am I hearing ghosts now?”

Not only hearing them. Seeing them. Or one specific ghost, at least. Kel’Thuzad’s shape slowly formed before his eyes, translucent and hovering, the eyes dark holes. But it was unmistakably him, and the spectral lips curved in a knowing smile.

“I was right about you, Prince Arthas.”

“It took you long enough.” The bass, angry rumble of Tichondrius seemed to come out of nowhere, and the specter—if it had indeed actually been there—disappeared. Arthas was shaken. Had he imagined it? Was he starting to lose his sanity along with his soul?

Tichondrius had not noticed anything and continued, removing the casket and peering disgustedly inside at the nearly-liquefied corpse of Kel’Thuzad. Arthas found the stench more tolerable than he had expected, though it was still horrific. It seemed like a lifetime ago he had struck at the necromancer with his hammer and watched the too-rapid decomposition of the newly dead man. “These remains are badly decomposed. They will never survive the trip to Quel’Thalas.”

Arthas seized on the distraction. “Quel’Thalas?” The golden land of the elves…

“Yes. Only the energies of the high elves’ Sunwell can bring Kel’Thuzad back to life.” The dreadlord’s frown deepened. “And with each moment, he decays further. You must steal a very special urn from the paladin’s keeping. They are bearing it here now. Place the necromancer’s remains within it, and he will be well protected for the journey.”

The dreadlord was smirking. There was more to this than at first was apparent. Arthas opened his mouth to inquire, then closed it. Tichondrius would not tell him anyway. He shrugged, mounted Invincible, and rode where he was told.

Behind him, he heard the demon’s dark laughter.

Tichondrius had been right. Moving slowly along the road, on foot, was a small funeral procession. A military funeral, or one for an important dignitary; Arthas recognized the trappings of such things. Several men in armor marched single file; one man in the center carried something in powerful arms. The faint sun glinted on his armor and upon the item he bore—the urn of which Tichondrius had spoken. And suddenly Arthas understood why Tichondrius had been amused.

The paladin’s carriage was distinctive, his armor unique, and Arthas gripped Frostmourne with hands that had suddenly become slightly unsteady. He forced the myriad, confusing, unsettling sensations down, and ordered his men to approach.

The funeral party was not large, though it was filled with fighters of distinction, and it was an easy matter to completely surround them. They drew their weapons, but did not attack, turning instead for instructions to the man who bore the urn. Uther—for it could be no one else, seemed completely in control as he regarded his former student. His face was impassive, but more lined than Arthas remembered. His eyes, however, burned with righteous fury.

“The dog returns to his vomit,” Uther said, the words cracking like a whip. “I’d prayed you’d stay away.”

Arthas twitched slightly. His voice was rough as he replied, “I’m a bad copper—I just keep turning up. I see you still call yourself a paladin, even though I dissolved your order.”

Uther actually laughed, though it was bitter laughter. “As if you could dissolve it yourself. I answer to the Light, boy. So did you, once.”

The Light. He still remembered it. His heart lurched in his chest and for a moment, just a moment, he lowered the sword. Then the whispers came, reminding him of the power he now bore, emphasizing that walking the path of the Light had not gotten him what he craved. Arthas gripped Frostmourne firmly once more.

“I did many things, once,” he retorted. “No longer.”

“Your father ruled this land for fifty years, and you’ve ground it to dust in a matter of days. But undoing and destruction is easy, isn’t it?”

“Very dramatic, Uther. Pleasant as this is, I’ve no time to reminisce. I’ve come for the urn. Give it to me, and I’ll make sure you die quickly.” No sparing this one. Not even if he begged. Especially not if he begged. There was too much history between them. Too much—feeling.

Now Uther showed emotion other than anger. He stared at Arthas, aghast. “This urn holds your father’s ashes, Arthas! What, were you hoping to piss on them one last time before you left his kingdom to rot?”

A sudden jolt went through Arthas.

Father—

“I didn’t know what it held,” he murmured, as much to himself as to Uther. So this was the second reason the dreadlord had smirked as he had given Arthas his instructions. He, at least, had known what the urn contained. Test after test. Could Arthas fight his mentor…could he blaspheme his father’s ashes. Arthas was growing sick of it. He harnessed that anger as he spoke, dismounting and drawing Frostmourne.

“Nor does it matter. I’ll take what I came for one way or another.”

Frostmourne was almost humming now, in his mind and in his hand, eager for the battle. Arthas settled into attack position. Uther regarded him for a moment, then slowly lifted his own glowing weapon.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” he said, his voice gruff, and Arthas realized with horror that tears stood in Uther’s eyes. “When you were younger and selfish, I called it a child’s failing. When you pushed on stubbornly, I dismissed it as a youth’s need to move out from under his father’s shadow. And Stratholme—aye, Light forgive me, even that—I prayed you would find your own path to see the error of your judgment. I could not stand against my liege’s son.”

Arthas forced a smile as the two began to circle each other. “But now you do.”

“It was my last promise to your father. To my friend. I would see his remains treated with reverence, even after his own son brutally slaughtered him, unaware and unarmed.”

“You’ll die for that promise.”

“Possibly.” It didn’t seem to bother Uther much. “I’d rather die honoring that promise than live at your mercy. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad he doesn’t have to see what you’ve become.”

The remark…hurt. Arthas hadn’t expected it to. He paused, emotions warring within him, and Uther, ever the better in their bouts, used that brief hesitation to charge forward. “For the Light!” he cried, pulling the hammer back and swinging it at Arthas with all his strength. The gleaming weapon arced at Arthas so swiftly he could hear the sound of its movement.

He leaped aside, barely in time, and felt the air brush his face as the weapon rushed past. Uther’s expression was calm and focused…and deadly. It was his duty as he saw it to slay the betraying son, and stop the spread of evil.

Just as Arthas knew it was his duty to slay the man who had once mentored him. He needed to kill his past…all of his past. Or else it would forever reach out with the deceptively sweet hope of compassion and forgiveness. With an incoherent cry, Arthas brought Frostmourne down.

Uther’s hammer blocked it. The two men strained, their faces within inches of each other, the muscles in their arms shaking with effort, until with a grunt Uther shoved Arthas backward. The younger man stumbled. Uther pressed the attack. His face was calm, but his eyes were fierce and resolute, and he seemed to fight as if his victory was inevitable. The utter confidence shook Arthas. His own blows were powerful, but erratic. He’d never been able to best Uther before—