Chapter 34

Ascension

The wound on his shoulder had healed at an incredible rate. His shattered ribcage had mended, erasing any sign that he had taken the brunt of a warhammer's blow. His breathing was regular, and his muscles were filled with renewed vigor. Stefan Dreis was in perfect condition. Was it Fortune's Frozen Eye? Before he had donned the crown, Stefan had been on the brink of death. It appeared that the artifact had saved his life, as well as his companions'. But perhaps the crown had merely been the key to a destiny that had always been waiting inside Stefan, waiting for the lock to turn and the path to be open. Stefan knew the answer.

He knew everything. A shame he couldn't share it. The rumors of the Ice Crown of the Shifting Times had been true; upon placing the band of metal around his head, the facts and fallacies of Azeroth had swam into view. Knowledge had been obtained and enlightenment achieved. Stefan had learned the fate of everything that had come, is, and will come into being. Events that had transpired, and those that would. He knew how Iyana's story ended, as well as Guro'jintal's. He knew Mae's, and he knew Fineus'. He even knew his own, but he couldn't voice his knowledge. Besides, who would he tell? The dead Troll? The giant slug? The horde of Undead that waited down another vein of tunnels?

He chuckled at the thought of telling the Undead. They wouldn't listen, but he fancied he still held something over them. So when Stefan walked into the crypt, surrounded on all sides by a horde of the risen dead, he was smiling.

The room was packed with the Scourge's countless, abominable minions. Frail ghouls spat and hissed as Stefan came out of the gloom, running decayed tongues across their rotting teeth. Sickly zombies shuffled in place, moaning for blood and flesh. Abominations growled and roared, flailing their many limbs about in protest of his arrival. Even with a crowd so mindless and soulless, Stefan could feel the anger and hatred oozing from the dead flesh that stood before him in massive amounts.

They could not touch him. Not a scrape, not a cut. They didn't know why, either. Invisible shackles held them at bay, forcing them to only look, but not touch. Try as they might, the Undead could not find the will or the urge to strike out at him. They could not understand this barrier, and to justify its existence, they screamed like wild animals. All the while, Stefan was smiling because he knew why. Only he and one other. Stefan laughed inside as another thought crossed his mind; for every piece of knowledge there was, at least one other person on Azeroth knew it as well. It was a discrete relationship that the bearer of the crown would share with each and every one of these people, because between them they had a secret. It seemed so childish, but it was not beyond Stefan's understanding. Nothing was.

He took a final glance at the Undead before turning and walking through the door the Scourge had used to invade the tomb, disappearing into a tunnel of gloom once again.

---

In the Icecrown Glacier, the wind was dead and snowfall was faint. Amidst the ice tundras, snow dunes, and ominous glaciers that rose into the sky, the Scourge were on the move. Undead poured out of caves and through ravines, a sea of dead flesh and rotting bone. Necromancers followed closely, strengthening the Lich King's hold over the masses of mindless soldiers. The skies blackened as harpies, gargoyles, and frost wyrms took to the air, blotting out the dreary, pale sun. The land itself had been roused, its attention brought to a single event.

The Undead had risen to watch the advance of a lone man treking through the tundras. Though he was knee-deep in snow, his step never faltered. His fogged breath hung heavily in the air before him, and it was colder than a witch's tit. He was surrounded on all sides by the Scourge nipping at his heels like a hungry pack of wolves, winged gargoyles circling overhead like vultures. All called for his blood to be spilled.

But the animosity of the mindless host known as the Lich King's Scourge of Azeroth ended there. It was as if the man had an aura of protection, one more potent than the Lightbringer himself. Wherever he walked, the Undead cleared a path. Still they looked on with hungry, baleful eyes. Watching. Waiting. For what, they did not know, nor did they care to know. They only obeyed. And somewhere, a higher being told them to stay their hand.

Resist.

The man looked on with casual disregard. He wasn't surprised at the display, as any mortal should have been. He already knew his immunity, that he was special. But he wasn't cheerful, because he knew something else. What it was, he couldn't say. The curse forebade it. So he continued walking, until he lost count of his steps as he treked deeper and deeper into the Icecrown Glacier. Eventually, the snow banks lessened and his boots revereberated dully against ice and hard-packed snow. The path rose at a steady but not too steep incline, and continued in a spiral. Time passed, and the man found himself looking down and across the Glacier, to the northern coast, where the ocean's cold waves slapped against steep cliffs of ice. To the south he saw a sea of black dots, and above a hazy cloud of circling airbornes. Ahead, the frozen path continued onward and upward.

There was a loud crack as a piece of the icy walkway broke away and tumbled through the air, plummeting to the cold earth below. The man had walked dangerously close to the edge, but without distress. It was as if he knew it was going to happen beforehand. He walked on, his eyes searching the world around him for something of interest and finding none. He thought it funny that after all he had been through nothing could be found as interesting. Things had been completely different only a few hours before, miles beneath the surface of the world. When the pale glow of the Northrend sun had warmed his cold, numb skin as he stepped out of the caverns he knew himself to be a changed man. He had accepted the fact with calm acknowledgement. What could he do? T'was the way things were to transpire.

He pondered the transformation all the while, until the path had leveled off, and he had reached the zenith of the Frozen Throne, miles above the surface of Northrend. He had arrived at the roof of the world, and the pinnacle of every dark virtue known to the mortal realm.

He wasn't alone.

Only a few meters away, another was present atop the tallest peak in Icecrown. His armor was dark and worn, and his flowing, tattered cape flapped lackadaisically in the soft wind. When the figue turned to face Stefan, the Human looked first at the wicked, jagged runeblade held loosely in gauntleted hands, then slowly rose his gaze to meet the coldest, cruelest pair of eyes he had ever seen. There was no warmth within them, like he had found in Lorelein. There was no undying trust that Guro'jintal and Iyana showed. And the innocence he had seen in the black pupils of Geraldros were nowhere to be found as well. Beneath the baleful glow of the armored helmet, a pair of ice blue eyes stared back resolute and unmoving.

"Your name?" said the Lich King.

"Stefan Dreis."

"Then the Gods do not lie?"

"Am I speaking to Arthas, or Ner'zhul?" answered Stefan.

"They are no more. We are a single being now. I am the Lich King."

"We both know such a statement to be false, Ner'zhul."

The Lich King took a step forward from his throne, idly tapping a metallic finger on the hilt of Frostmourne. "You are confident in your knowledge, aren't you?"

"Do you call me a liar, demon?" replied Stefan.

He remained silent for a moment. With a chuckle, he replied, "Do you think you'll convince him, Stefan? Do you think your voice matters? You're just another martyr, sent by my enemies to ruin me. It's too late. For you, and for him."

"Perhaps it's too late for me, Lich. But it's never too late for him."

"Now I call you a liar."