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Muradin did not have a good feeling as he followed his friend Arthas and his expedition force, accompanied by his own group of Dwarven warriors, as they landed on an island near the frozen continent of Northrend.
In truth, unease had settled deep in his bones ever since Arthas had contacted him for aid on this expedition.
What Muradin couldn't understand was why.
Why make such an abrupt plan, especially when he knew his friend would still be reeling from his expulsion from the Silver Hand by his own mentor?
Why undertake something like this when his kingdom was in turmoil, with both the Church and the royal family on the verge of fracturing entirely?
Yet Muradin did not question Arthas as he normally would. Though Arthas did not seem outwardly despairing, Muradin could clearly see that his friend had become far more stoic—closed off. Out of respect, he kept his silence and chose to help him.
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Arthas and the expedition pressed deeper into the ice- and snow-covered island.
Northrend was the second-largest continent on Azeroth. Though not the size of Arda, it was still vast, lying closest to that distant land and perpetually shrouded in ice and snow. The islands surrounding it shared much the same conditions—this one included.
Arthas vividly remembered what Malak had told him before disappearing.
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-Flashback-
"Follow these coordinates, and at the very center of the island you will find an abandoned temple. There, upon an altar, lies an artifact of great power."
"And what is this artifact?" Arthas asked skeptically.
"A sword—but unlike any you have ever seen. Truth be told, not even our oldest records know how it was forged, much less by whom."
"Nonetheless, even if it took years, using the power and knowledge granted to us by the Changer of Ways, we were able to awaken the power within the blade."
"And pray tell," Arthas said, crossing his arms, "why didn't you or your followers take it for yourselves?"
"You think we didn't try?" Malak replied coldly. "The many skeletons littering the temple will tell you the fate of those who tried."
"The blade is powerful, yes—but it is also cruel and ruthless, as much as, if not more than, the environment it rests in. It requires a powerful wielder to contain it."
"That is where you come in. I have given you the location and the knowledge. Go and retrieve it. If you draw the blade successfully, you will ascend beyond this weak shell of yours."
"And if I fail?"
"…Then you will simply join the pile of bones already there."
-Flashback End-
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Arthas frowned as he recalled the conversation. Part of him still distrusted Malak, but he knew that as he was now, he would never be a viable opponent to Alastor—much less defeat him.
He needed to take this gamble. For himself. For his people. For the world.
"Arthas, how much farther?" Muradin called from behind.
"Almost there! We should reach an abandoned temple soon—and what I seek should be within it."
"What are you seeking, Arthas? I haven't seen you this desperate in a long time."
"An artifact," Arthas replied. "Something that will change my fate."
Muradin frowned, the unease in his gut growing heavier.
After passing between two jagged cliffs, they finally emerged before an abandoned circular temple. Its dome was almost completely destroyed, eroded by centuries of ice and wind.
A sudden chill washed over the group—not from the cold, but from something far deeper, as if it clawed at their very souls.
"Arthas…" Muradin began. He didn't know why, but standing before the temple felt like staring into an icy abyss.
When he looked again, Arthas had already begun running toward the ruins.
"Arthas! Maker damn it, lad—wait!" Muradin shouted as he chased after him, the rest of the expedition close behind.
Inside the temple, Muradin finally caught up. Arthas stood before an altar, and embedded within it was a massive two-handed longsword.
As a dwarf—and brother to the Bronzebeard King—Muradin was among Azeroth's greatest forge-masters. He had seen countless weapons and suits of armor of legendary craftsmanship.
But this blade…
It was unlike anything he had ever seen. One glance told him it was forged from a material unknown to him, and the eerie, glowing runes etched along its surface were of a kind he had never encountered.
"My friend," Arthas said quietly, eyes fixed on the sword, "this is what I have come to retrieve."
Even from a distance, Arthas could feel the immense power contained within the blade. His focus was so absolute that he ignored the many warnings the Holy Light within him screamed about the sword's cursed nature.
Muradin stepped closer, using all his knowledge of runes to examine the blade.
The first thing he noticed was its name, etched into the pommel:
Frostmourne.
As Muradin studied the runes further, his expression darkened.
"Arthas… this blade is cursed. By the Bloody Maker, this might be the most dangerous cursed weapon I've ever seen."
He shook his head and stepped away from the altar.
"This expedition is over. We leave—now."
Turning to the group, Muradin began ordering a retreat back to their ships. Then he noticed Arthas hadn't responded.
"Arthas? Did the cold freeze your tongue, lad—what are you—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
The group watched in horror as Arthas stood before Frostmourne, his hand slowly rising.
"My prince, stop!" the leader of the expedition shouted. "Wielding a cursed artifact is an unforgivable taboo under both Dalaran and the Church!"
"Lad! Have you lost your marbles?" Muradin roared. "I just told you how dangerous that thing is!"
Arthas hesitated, his fingers hovering inches from the hilt.
Voices echoed in his mind.
I am no longer your master.A disappointed mentor.
You are not worthy of his consideration.A love long lost.
You will never be as great as Alastor.A terrible benefactor.
Arthas turned to Muradin and gave him a sad smile.
"Someone has to make the hard decisions."
"ARTHAS, NO!" Muradin screamed as he lunged forward.
Too late.
Arthas seized Frostmourne and wrenched it free.
A massive wave of icy, eerie blue energy erupted outward, shattering what remained of the temple. Muradin, closest to the blast, was hurled like a cannonball into a shattered pillar, smashing through it before collapsing onto the frozen ground.
Only the enchantments and shock absorbers in his master-crafted armor spared him from death—but the armor was ruined, and his body broken. Weak and helpless, he could only watch the transformation unfold before darkness claimed him.
The rest of the expedition was not so fortunate.
The corrupted cold seeped into dwarves and humans alike, killing them as it twisted their very lifeforce into something unnatural. In their final moments, they watched their skin turn sickly pale, then rot and decay, as their eyes began to glow with a ghastly blue light.
Arthas himself changed.
The runeblade flooded his body with terrible, unnatural power, replacing the Holy Light that once filled him. His golden hair turned white, his skin pallid like that of the dead, and his eyes burned with icy blue light.
Even his once-pristine paladin armor transformed, now bearing the colors of Frostmourne.
Arthas felt euphoric.
This was what he needed—power. Power to shape the fate of his people. Power to never again be suppressed when claiming his destiny.
Frostmourne whispered to him, promising even greater strength, revealing how he could grow stronger still.
Arthas smiled—a cold, unhinged smile—as he surveyed his newly undead expedition. They were better this way. They would not hesitate, fear, or tire.
He glanced once at Muradin's fallen form, a flicker of sadness crossing his face as he assumed his friend had perished.
But power had hardened him.
He turned away without another look, marching onward as the first of his undead legion followed.
"Hm. Not good enough," he muttered. "I have a far better name."
"From now on, they will be known as the first of the Scourge."
Arthas gazed toward the distant horizon—toward Arda, toward Lordaeron.
"Time to go home."
With the artifact—the key to his ascension—in hand, the next phase could begin.
But not before he purged the weakness from his kingdom.
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Darkness lingered.
Not the peaceful kind—this was heavy, suffocating, and cold enough to bite at his bones.
Muradin groaned as sensation slowly returned to his body. Pain followed immediately, flaring through his chest, arms, and skull like molten iron. His lungs burned as he dragged in a shallow breath.
He tried to move.
A sharp crack echoed from his shoulder, and Muradin roared in pain, collapsing back into the snow.
"Bloody… Maker…"
He looked down on his armour with a grimace.
His armor, one of his most proud works ruined. Runes cracked and dim, their enchantments spent. Whatever that blast had been, it had killed the magic outright.
He needed to get up!
Muradin forced himself upright, gritting his teeth as agony shot through his spine. His vision swam, but he clenched his jaw and pushed through it.
"No…" he growled, forcing his eyes open again. "I'm not dyin' here. Not today."
He needed to return to Arda, needed to warn them what was coming.
Muradin with immense effort got up and picked up his hammer as he dragged himself across the snow.
He didn't know how long he was walking but he stopped when he saw shadowy figures approach.
Thinking the worst he raised his hammer and gritted his teeth even if his legs felt like collapsing.
To his surprise the approaching figures were not like any thing he ever saw but before he could make out their features he fell to the ground and was soon picked up.
He hoped whoever they were they were in fact friendly since he felt himself lying down on something soft and being injected with some substance that lowered the pain he was feeling and caused him to go unconscious again.
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