Tirisfal Glades.
Dusk painted the ravaged landscape in hues of bruised purple and fading orange.
From the heart of the Royal City of Lordaeron, a triumphant roar erupted, a wave of pure elation washing over the land!
The Alliance army had reclaimed the fallen capital!
Save for a scattered few undead, their ranks led by desperate commanders who vanished into the shadowed embrace of the mountains and the labyrinthine depths of the sewers, the Scourge, which had cast a pall of death and despair over the northern Eastern Kingdoms for nearly two harrowing years, was broken. Once again, the radiant light of the Holy Light pierced the gloom, bathing the land of Lordaeron in its purifying embrace!
Messengers, swift as the wind, were dispatched in every direction, their steeds galloping towards the far borders of Lordaeron, carrying the joyous tidings of liberation. And with this news came another: Calia Menethil would ascend the throne in a coronation ceremony held within the newly reclaimed Royal Palace of Lordaeron in but half a moon's turn!
Two weeks was a demanding timeframe, but the Alliance possessed a wealth of skilled artisans. The dedicated building teams from Hope's Landing, the master stonemasons' guild from Stromgarde, and the industrious dwarven craftsmen converged upon the ruined capital, rallying the resilient people of Lordaeron to begin the monumental task of rebuilding.
The victorious army, led by paladins radiating divine power and accompanied by devoted priests, meticulously cleared the streets of undead corpses, purifying the lingering plague that clung to the stones. Meanwhile, the determined civilians toiled tirelessly, clearing rubble, leveling the ground, and laying new foundations, breathing life back into the north shore of Lake Lordamere.
At this pivotal moment, Galen, his hand gently resting on the shoulder of a young boy of perhaps seven or eight years, was granted passage into the Royal Palace of Lordaeron after his arrival was announced by the vigilant guards. This marked Galen's second entry into the storied palace; the first had been a moment of hard-won victory, celebrating the defeat of the orcish siege of Lordaeron.
The young boy beside Galen wore an expression of profound recollection, his innocent eyes clouded with a mixture of pain and fear. This palace was the landscape of his childhood; every door, every wall, every secret passage was etched into his memory. He had been a witness to the unspeakable horror, the moment the grown-up prince had walked through these very halls, only to plunge a blade into their father's heart within the hallowed throne room.
(Arthas' good half of the soul was taken by Galen)
Galen felt a subtle tremor run through the boy's small frame. He gently squeezed his shoulder. "Arthas" he said softly, his voice imbued with reassurance, "do not be afraid. All of that is in the past. Calia is about to be crowned queen, and you will return to her side, ready to begin a new life."
Galen's words seemed to possess a soothing magic. The melancholic cast on Arthas' face softened, replaced by a calm and gentle demeanor. He shook his head slightly, leaning into Galen's palm like a trusting kitten.
The Royal Palace of Lordaeron was the craftsmen's priority, and in the short time since its recapture, it had been miraculously renewed, devoid of its previous dilapidation, the bloodstains and scars of war vanished. Unlike the breathtaking artistry and opulent grandeur of the Sunstrider Spire, the meticulously crafted reliefs of the Violet Citadel, or the rugged, imposing style of Stromgarde Keep, this palace exuded an air of solemn authority, a seat of power and justice.
The majestic throne stood in the vast, square hall, flanked by rows of thick, imposing pillars. Along the walls, the seats of the nobility awaited their future occupants, and the oil lamps suspended from heavy iron chains cast a warm, steady glow. Sunlight streamed through the colored glass of the circular dome high above, bathing the entire hall in a dignified and serene light.
As the coronation day drew nearer, a knot of apprehension tightened in Calia's chest. She had once known a life of joy and fulfillment, but that had shattered the moment her brother's hand turned against their father. Now, the weight of a kingdom rested upon her young shoulders. She had received no formal training in the art of governance, and a gnawing doubt lingered – could she truly lead the people of Lordaeron back to prosperity?
Step!
Step!
Step!
The crisp sound of steel boots echoing on the marble floor broke Calia's troubled thoughts. She knew that after the paladins of the Silver Hand and the Knights of the Argent Dawn had cleansed the palace more than a dozen times, no hidden malice could remain. Coupled with the heavily armed sentries guarding every entrance, anyone who could reach the palace's interior must be a high-ranking member of the Alliance, a familiar face.
Calia turned, her gaze softening as she saw Galen enter. Her eyes lit up, a flicker of hope igniting within her. She gently placed the heavy crown she had been contemplating on a nearby cushion. At this moment, the usually composed princess seemed to find a source of strength, her pace quickening as she moved to embrace Galen.
However, her steps faltered as she noticed the young boy Galen led by the hand. A torrent of complex emotions washed over her, freezing her in place.
Is this Galen's child? The thought flashed through her mind. By the count of years, Galen was now thirty, and Calia herself was nearing twenty-nine. It wouldn't be entirely surprising for him to have a child of seven or eight.
Calia's momentary hesitation did not escape Arthas' sharp gaze. The boy, who had been so somber moments before, seemed to have discovered a source of amusement. "Sister," he announced loudly, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I saw it! You wanted to hug Galen just now!"
Galen watched as a blush bloomed across Calia's beautiful face, spreading with remarkable speed. This child has the subtlety of a charging rhino. No wonder you confessed to Jaina so many times without success!
"Calia," Galen said gently, drawing her attention back to the boy, "look at him. His name is Arthas!"
Calia's breath hitched. Arthas. The terrible wordplay struck her with the force of a physical blow.
"Are you… Arthas?" she whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief as she turned to Galen. She remembered his promise, his vow to bring back her younger brother.
"That is him," Galen confirmed, his expression somber, "but not entirely." He paused, searching for the right words. "The Arthas you knew… he is gone, utterly consumed. I could not bring him back whole, so I had to… settle for a fragment, the part of him that was still good."
"Sister," the little boy piped up, his voice tinged with a childish vulnerability, "it's me, your brother. You always lost to me when we played games, and you always refused to admit it!"
Calia gently covered the boy's mouth with her hand, tears welling in her eyes. "Alright, alright," she choked out, "I believe you. You are Arthas."
"No," the boy insisted, shaking his head vehemently, "I am not that bad guy Arthas! I am Arthas Menethil!"
"Okay, okay," Calia soothed, her voice thick with emotion, "you are Arthas Menethil. Mother will be overjoyed to know of your return!"
"Where is Mother? I miss her! I want to see her!"
Calia summoned a nearby maid, entrusting Arthas to her care. She asked the maid to take the boy to find his mother, instructing her to keep his identity a secret for the time being, a surprise for their grieving mother.
Once they were alone, the carefully constructed dam of Calia's composure finally broke. She threw herself into Galen's arms, her slender body wracked with soft sobs.
"Galen," she whispered, her voice trembling, "please… allow me this moment of weakness, just this once."
Galen, feeling a profound sense of empathy, could only gently pat the back of the future queen, allowing her to weep in the shelter of his embrace.
"Thank you… for bringing my brother back," she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest. "Even if it is only a part… my mother and I… we will be eternally grateful."
"Galen," she continued, her voice barely a whisper, "I don't know how I will ever repay you. The Menethil Dynasty… will forever remember your kindness."
Galen listened to her heartfelt words, gently wiping away the tears that streamed down her face.
"Thank you… Galen," she repeated, her voice filled with a raw vulnerability.
As she finished speaking, Calia rose onto her tiptoes once more, lifting her tear-streaked face to his, and gently pressed a kiss to his lips.
Galen's initial instinct was to demur, to maintain a respectful distance. But his body, it seemed, had a different opinion.
That's the Queen, a quiet voice echoed within him!