A spear of the void, woven of radiance and death, punched through Sargeras' adamantine body. Shocked and terrified, the Dark Titan looked down at the massive shaft impaling his chest and stammered, "This… can't be!"
At last he realized the truth: throughout their earlier clashes Arthas had always held back—he had never fought at full strength.
Even the void-born mutations that had flared across Arthas' face moments ago had been staged for Sargeras' benefit.
Now, grievously wounded, Sargeras finally understood, and knew the source of the unease he had sensed from the start.
"You… held back all that time just to drive me to this point?!"
The void-spike through his chest nailed Sargeras to the boundary of the Domination Realm. Runes he had once been able to shrug off now became deadly venom, pouring into his body and numbing his mind.
Yet Sargeras was not so easily broken; even in complete disadvantage he wrestled against Arthas' power.
He knew he was all but doomed, and the only thing rankling him was the tangled knot of unanswered questions.
The Dark Titan refused to perish in ignorance; he meant to wring an answer from Arthas.
"My sole fear was that you would keep the Legion out of my sight, harry Azeroth for years to come, and leave the world exhausted for decades."
Seeing that Domination had begun to gnaw at Sargeras, Arthas finally deigned to speak.
The words struck Sargeras as absurd. "So my all-or-nothing throw with Argus was actually the right move? Hah… I should have drained a few more Titans and left your preparations in ruins!"
Had Sargeras truly resolved to obliterate Azeroth regardless of cost, Arthas' contingencies would have faltered, and even the Eternals of the Shadowlands could scarcely have quelled the upheaval of several slain Titans.
But it was only Argus; The Maw and the Shadowlands could bear that burden.
Had he chosen instead to preserve the bulk of the Legion, using its infinite demons to wear Azeroth down across the ages, he might not have ended like this.
Sargeras' downfall was overconfidence: trusting that his annihilation of the Pantheon could be replayed, that he could murder Arthas as he had murdered gods before.
At first Arthas had not known the Titan's measure, but his battle with Dimensius taught him that Sargeras might be far less mighty than assumed.
Their duel confirmed it, so Arthas unhesitatingly prolonged the fight, buying the Pantheon time to decide.
While his body still eluded total domination, Sargeras sneered. "So from the moment you saw through me, you began plotting further? My kin were part of your design."
Arthas offered no reply; to Sargeras the silence was confession enough.
The dark lord burst into laughter that shook the very space around them despite his mortal wounds.
"How laughable! A Pantheon of self-styled creators, outwitted by their own 'creation'—and too proud to know it! Hahaha!"
"Come then, Arthas; take my head with your blade, shatter my soul, and crown yourself 'savior' of the universe!"
Arthas regarded him impassively; the hideous void-veins on his face faded, and motes of golden light drifted across his skin.
Sargeras had not been wrong about one thing: wielding three Primal Forces at once placed an immense burden even on Arthas.
Yet he had not used his own body as the direct vessel; he had found a loophole.
Dimensius' essence, now his prisoner, let him blunt the clash of forces within him, sparing his frame.
He could have sustained that state long enough to slay Sargeras outright.
Instead, once the Titan was helpless, he quelled the power.
Sargeras, feeling the Domination Chains gnaw deeper, assumed Arthas meant to enslave his will and snarled, "Waste no effort; before your mastery is complete I will shatter my own soul."
With that, the destruction force he had supposedly suppressed surged anew, heedless of the ruin it wrought inside him—he would annihilate himself before serving.
Pride forbade any fate but death; servitude to Arthas was unthinkable.
Yet a stronger wave of Domination crushed the self-destruct before it could bloom.
Sargeras felt no rage—only bewilderment—but masked it, clinging to his last chance.
A Titan is no common being; though weaker apart from his body, his soul alone outstrips elemental creatures knit of raw spirit and energy.
Arthas' gambit could seize the Titan's shell, leaving only an empty husk once the process finished.
That would not kill Sargeras; it would grant him a slender avenue of escape.
Indeed, as Domination neared full hold over half his body, Sargeras unleashed the fel within him in a blinding Storm of Ruin.
Sulphur-yellow flame erupted throughout the realm, devouring every safe span of ground and even forcing Arthas back, carving room for escape.
The Domination field—sturdy enough to weather their clashing might—now showed visible cracks.
Under the swelling destruction those cracks tore wide, ripping a breach in the boundary.
Without hesitation Sargeras' fallen soul burst free, seeking the depths of the Twisting Nether.
But the instant the Storm of Ruin surged outward, a prismatic blast of Order-light descended like judgment, caging the fleeing soul.
Every motion of the Dark Titan froze; even his thoughts stilled.
By the time he stirred and tried to slip the radiant snare, it was already too late.
The pull of Order's power yanked his soul violently toward the Pantheon; the irresistible tug from the depths of his very being made Sargeras ache beyond endurance.
"No!"
He realized the oath he had once sworn within the Pantheon was now taking effect; his weakened kin were using the traces he had left behind to drag him back to the throne he had once occupied.
And to the present Sargeras, that throne meant only one thing: eternal imprisonment.
"Sargeras, my brother, your crusade is at an end!"
The Titans' voices echoed amid the Light of Order, hammering at Sargeras' soul, while the Pantheon itself tore at him like a black hole, leaving him a leaf in a maelstrom, spiraling inexorably toward his sealing.
Sargeras had abandoned his physical form; with no anchor left to steady himself, all his defiance could not avert the fate now sealed.
Before the Light of Order hauled him away, Sargeras glared in unwilling fury at the crumbling Domination Realm.
Amid the hellish storm and flame that ripped the dark horizon, Arthas—ever calm—suddenly offered Sargeras a knowing smile; from the motion of his lips Sargeras read the silent words.
"Farewell forever, Titan."
He had planned it all along!
Sargeras' eyes blazed; the truth struck home: Arthas' scheme was aimed not at one Titan, but at every Titan.
When Sargeras returned to the Pantheon, endless captivity would await them all; the others had sealed themselves willingly, but he would be its unwilling prisoner.
The Titans were willing to sacrifice a span of freedom for the world's future, re-emerging into the physical cosmos only when their strength returned—or when Sargeras repented.
With Aman'thul gone, that span would stretch even longer; Sargeras' own evil would grind against the Titans' power, turning the sentence into an eon beyond imagining.
Thus the real universe would enter a long "power vacuum"; no longer ruled by Titans or demons, but by a riot of Mortal Civilizations.
As consciousness slipped fully back onto the throne, Sargeras saw a gloating Night Elf gripping twin war-blades.
So insignificant a being should have stirred no feeling, yet the fresh defeat by Arthas summoned every memory of mortal defiance.
He recalled the Night Elf he had once branded with fel fire millennia ago—Illidan Stormrage.
A jest of fate: the feeble mortal once deemed an insect now dared stand before a god, intent on becoming his eternal jailer.
Utterly meaningless.
Sargeras meant to dismiss it, yet after his crushing loss to Arthas, Illidan's appearance felt less coincidence than taunt and reminder from the death knight.
He could almost hear Arthas speak the words and picture the smirk on his face.
"Mortals are tougher than you think."
Across the coming ages Illidan would be the scar of Sargeras' deepest shame, and the cursed Demon Hunter—hardly different from a demon himself—could indeed serve as his eternal jailer so long as Sargeras remained bound.
Thought faded into silence; the Pantheon bore their brother-and-foe into the hidden folds of the cosmos.
---
Dust-stained, Arthas landed on the Burning Throne that had come to his aid; he brushed sulfurous grit from his coat and pinched out a few still-smoldering threads.
"Ahem… ahem!"
Sargeras' final, desperate strike had dealt little damage but supreme humiliation; torrents of Ruinous Brimstone had burst from the Titan's frame.
Sargeras was ruthless enough to turn his own body into fuel, hoping the blinding storm would let him escape.
Yet the Pantheon's gods had waited, fresh and ready; even after he shattered the realm's borders, he lacked the strength to break their lock.
The Dark Titan's defeat was sealed; Arthas needed only to choreograph a tidy finale to the farce.
The Titans likely guessed his intent, yet—Aman'thul aside—remained ambiguous, even compliant.
They were no longer the omnipotent Pantheon of old; Sargeras' slaughter had all but destroyed their function, and recovery would take ages.
Arthas' arrival offered opportunity: better to place the world's future in mortal hands than leave it to Sargeras' chaos and terror.
Things could hardly worsen, so the Titans accepted the "bargain" without protest.
Gods to gods, mortals to mortals—an outcome both sides could embrace.
But no universal utopia followed; without Titan guardians the cosmos would face every Primal Force directly. Even benign powers could crush individuals when their tides rolled across the mortal plane.
Worse, the hungry Void stirred; in past ages the Legion and Sargeras had done one good thing—contesting the Void for control of reality, they had checked its spread.
Now those heavy duties would fall upon—
"Arthas!"
A joyful cry cut his thoughts short; before he could react, a soft form crashed into his arms.
Jaina held him tightly, burying her face against his chest. "Thank the Light…"
"I made you worry."
Arthas wrapped his arms around her, voice low and soothing.
Before the battle he had prepared for every contingency, yet he still readied himself for the worst.
"Is it truly over?"
Jaina asked hopefully. From within the Burning Throne she had watched the realm collapse, the storm of annihilation, and finally the Pantheon's light drag the roaring giant into the dark.
"For now—yes. We have won, Jaina."
With those words Arthas relaxed at last; it was time to bring the tale to its close.
Old Gods, Eternals, the Burning Legion, even the Void Lords that had hungered for reality—none posed a threat for the foreseeable future.
"You did us a great service, Jaina. Without you calling the Titans, we would have settled this another—far bloodier—way."
Arthas held Jaina close, savoring the rare moment and unable to resist offering praise.
Before the two could linger in their affection for long, a voice that shattered the mood cut in.
"Sorry to interrupt you two."
Arthas and Jaina both turned toward Xal'atath, whose face still bore shock and doubt.
Xal'atath demanded of Arthas, "What exactly have you done? Jaina told me things are far from simple!"
Arthas merely smiled; what could he say? That he'd been planning everything since shortly after birth?
Altering the course of one event wasn't hard for him, but he wanted more—an ending that could change the fate of most.
Yet even with foresight akin to prophecy, he had been powerless to prevent some of the bloodshed and sacrifice along the way.
"That's a secret, Xal'atath."
She didn't get the answer she wanted and knew hoping Arthas would explain was futile; all she could be sure of was that the universe's course had been completely rewritten.
So she couldn't help one last question: "If I hadn't accepted your terms, what would the outcome have been? You can at least tell me that."
Seeing Xal'atath wouldn't let it go, Arthas said leisurely, "What else? Villains who do evil meet their doom—every drama and novel you've read says so."
"You know that's not what I meant! I meant Dimensius—Dimensius!"
Xal'atath was nearly frantic.
"Then you would have won, though for you it probably wouldn't have been good news."
This time Arthas didn't conceal the truth, and the answer left Xal'atath sighing in relief.
"What, is that answer so important?"
"No, not important at all."
Xal'atath sighed, choking up for a rare moment. "He's already dead; nothing matters anymore."
Dimensius had imprisoned her for tens of thousands of years, turning her from a mortal into an apostle who announced death to other worlds for the Void Lords.
She went from initial resistance to vengeful compliance and release, until it became a boring routine.
Time had worn away too much; all that remained in her heart was endless emptiness and hatred.
After Arthas slew Dimensius, that hatred and gloom vanished like foam; she had no target left for revenge—or could she turn that wrath upon the entire Void?
As one of the Primal Forces of the universe, the Void could never be wholly eradicated.
She couldn't wipe out all Void creatures unless the universe itself collapsed, taking her and the Void to mutual annihilation.
"So let it be; Azeroth is a decent enough final home."
Xal'atath blinked, recalling Lordaeron's theaters and bookshops—mortals might be fragile, but their brief lives spark thoughts brighter than those of long-lived races.
"Then let's go home—um, wait, does anyone know where we are right now?"
Jaina walked to the Burning Throne's console, but after fiddling with the panel she realized a serious problem.
She looked to Arthas for help, hoping for a definite answer.
But Arthas could only apologize: "You can't expect someone fighting Sargeras with full focus to remember where I was knocked flying, right?"
To lure Sargeras far enough, Arthas hadn't bothered recording their battle's trail; he simply arranged to be flung farther by Sargeras' attacks.
Which left them temporarily lost in the cosmos.
Jaina helplessly slapped her forehead. "...We're a long way from home."
"All right, no more useless talk."
Unable to stand it, Xal'atath nudged Jaina aside from the console; though she didn't want to recall her days as a Void Pioneer, they couldn't drift forever.
Fortunately, serving Dimensius meant first knowing your exact cosmic coordinates, or you'd never find the next world worth devouring.
After some tinkling, even on the unfamiliar Titan panel, Xal'atath locked onto a traceable signal.
At last they could head home—though it would take some time.
---
Stratholme Cathedral, where Arthas had sworn his oath as a Paladin, was once again filled with a celebrating crowd.
Hymns rang out, this time not for a Paladin's initiation, but to bless a bride and groom entering the hall.
"Your Majesty, Your Majesty—wait up!"
Hearing the familiar call, Arthas turned to see his teacher Uther jogging after him.
He stopped and, once Uther caught up, teased, "What's wrong, teacher? Why the rush?"
"Your—Arthas, how can you ask? An attendant told me you just left!"
Uther caught the jest in Arthas' tone and knew the king wished to drop courtly formality.
Arthas rubbed his temples in mock distress. "I really don't have time; after the war there's still much to do, I can't attend the banquet."
He shouldn't leave now—the wedding just ended and the newlyweds hadn't left the cathedral—but he'd given his blessing and had no intention of braving the feast.
Though Uther said he must stay, Arthas knew several irreverent elders of the Silver Hand were planning to drink him under the table again.
"If you go, Mograine will gripe at us—it's outrageous; you must at lest teach that lad a lesson."
Dathrohan popped up from somewhere, chuckling as he tried to keep Arthas behind.
Arthas was about to refuse when the Communication Orb at his belt began beeping.
The two Paladins fell silent; Arthas took out the orb, and as soon as he activated it Jaina's urging came through.
"Arthas? Where did you run off to? The tax issues on Alterac's frontier still need your approval!"
"I understand; I'm on my way back."
Ending the call, Arthas gave a "not my fault" shrug. "You saw—I'm already sneaking out today; if I'm any later, Jaina will blow up."
Disappointment flashed across the old comrades' faces; their plan to keep His Majesty at the feast was foiled again.
But this was, after all, official business; Uther knew his student had always drawn a clear line between public and private. "Then you'd better hurry back. I've heard about the troubles in the Alterac borderlands—tricky business indeed."
Arthas nodded and vanished amid the cheering crowd.
Uther watched the direction Arthas had gone, smiling and shaking his head. He actually wished his student could relax a bit; after so many crises in Azeroth, Arthas had never once taken a holiday for himself.
While the Lightbringer pondered, a cool touch brushed his nose. Uther looked up to find snowflakes drifting from the sky.
"Got to hand it to Mograine's boy—he picked his day well; a lovely snow right before Winter Veil."
Dathrohan clapped Uther's shoulder with a laugh; Uther glanced at his old comrade, and the two roared together.
A few minutes later Arthas unfastened his cloak and handed it to the approaching Jaina.
"So, how was my cover for you?" Jaina beamed at Arthas, none of the urgency or interrogation she'd shown in the comm-crystal remaining.
"I can only apologize to Little Renault and Sally—who'd have thought they'd schedule the wedding for today?"
Arthas could only say sorry to the Mograine family; the moment the palace courier handed him the invitation he'd sensed trouble.
He had planned a long trip with Jaina for today, and the timing clashed. Skipping the wedding of Mograine's son felt improper, so he'd settled on this compromise.
He would attend the most important part of the ceremony; as for the banquet afterwards—aside from a few senior Silver Hand brothers left on duty in Stratholme—most guests were Young Mograine's friends, and his presence would only make the youngsters uneasy.
So Arthas chose to slip away, and to silence Uther and the others the cunning king and his queen enacted a neat little double-act.
In truth, Arthas had already settled the Alterac border issue; the remaining details could be left to wage-slave Xal'atath. Today was a rare holiday he had long since decided to take.
Jaina picked a new cloak for Arthas; their destination wasn't so cold, no need for fox-fur mantles.
"Got to admit, Young Mograine's wedding was lively." Arthas recalled the bustling scene—Winter Veil had helped, but clearly everyone had enjoyed themselves.
"Then I bet the newly-weds themselves are about to cry for mercy."
Jaina remembered her own wedding day with Arthas. Even though they'd rushed to keep it simple before anyone back in Azeroth could react, arranging everything and getting through the ceremony had still exhausted them.
"Maybe. Some people are just born to love crowds."
Arthas offered no opinion. Jaina laughed. "Then I guess we're the sort who hate crowds—oh, how are we getting there?"
"Just teleport us. Invincible's sulking; let him play by himself."
"Then hold tight—destination: Northshire!"
The Archmage's spatial spell spanned the continent; in the blink of an eye the dry northern air turned into a gentle southern breeze.
Even in winter Elwynn Forest kept a pleasant warmth, far more agreeable than wintry Lordaeron.
"Hah—"
Jaina breathed in Northshire's crisp air, glee sparkling in her eyes. "Being away from the palace feels wonderful!"
To the king and queen of Lordaeron, the palace was less a home than a giant office.
Jaina had never been one to sit still; she preferred the world outside to hours in a study or haggling with mages in Dalaran.
Much like her people favored the sea over land.
Daughter of the sea, Jaina had inherited Kul Tiras' spirit of adventure and exploration.
With the festival approaching, Arthas had arranged to visit Northshire, leaving state affairs behind for some rare intimate time together.
Their choice proved spot-on: they arrived just as Northshire held its grand fair.
Locals gathered to display the year's harvest, trading goods and sampling delicacies rarely tasted at other times.
As they walked toward the fair-lights, Jaina and Arthas soon heard loud hawkers' cries.
"Come taste fresh-baked bread! Made with the finest Westfall wheat!"
"Wine! Wine from Millie's Orchard!"
"Stormwind cheese! Rare chance—miss it and you'll be hauling it home on a donkey cart!"
Shouts rose and fell; weaving through the stalls, the pair soon carried armfuls of treats and trinkets.
As dusk deepened and the fair-lights brightened, Jaina, smiling, tugged Arthas toward the quiet riverbank.
They spread a picnic blanket and pitched a tent beside the little river outside the fair.
"Oops, we forgot to buy a lantern."
Jaina rummaged through their purchases and realized they had no lighting.
Arthas, still assembling the portable brazier, answered without looking up. "A light spell should do, right?"
"Good point." After arranging the snacks and pastries on the cloth and table, Jaina began weaving magic around the tent.
Soon motes of light glimmered around the canvas; beneath the gentle glow Arthas poured wine for them both, the clear liquid glowing ruby in the lamplight.
As brighter lamps were lit at the distant fair, night finally fell.
Jaina nudged Arthas and pointed toward the nearby river.
"Look, Arthas."
The clear water mirrored the evening stars; a soft breeze stirred ripples like an unseen hand plucking at moons and stars.
Azeroth's twin moons, eternal and gentle, watched over the world while countless stars wove the veil of night, draping the land in slumber.
Arthas raised his cup, clinked it with Jaina's, then, remembering something, smiled and lifted his glass toward the sky.
"May the stars ever shine upon our homeland, may gentle winds guide your path—thank you, my friend."
The End.