CHAPTER 34: Whispers of Ambition
Arthas lifted his bloodied sword with deliberate calm, the blade glinting under the harsh sunlight filtering through the highland mists. Without a flicker of hesitation, he brought it down in a swift arc, severing Zuluhed's right hand at the wrist. The orc chieftain howled, a guttural cry that echoed across the battlefield littered with corpses. Blood spurted from the stump, but Arthas remained impassive, scooping up the severed appendage as if it were a mere trinket. Channeling the Holy Light, he pressed the hand back into place, golden energy weaving flesh and bone together in a miraculous knit. The pain of regrowth was as excruciating as the initial cut, but that was the point—endless torment without the mercy of death.
"Where is the Demon Soul?" Arthas demanded, his voice steady, almost conversational.
Zuluhed spat through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing with defiance. "I don't know! Ah—!"
He couldn't stomach the humiliation—trampled like a cur by this human whelp. But words were barely out before Arthas's blade flashed again, this time lopping off the freshly healed arm at the elbow. The orc's scream pierced the air, raw and animalistic. Arthas retrieved the limb once more, invoking the Light to reattach it, the holy magic twisting into an instrument of cruelty.
"Where is the Demon Soul?" Arthas repeated, expressionless, as if inquiring about the weather.
"I don't know! Ah!"
This time, the sword descended on a finger. Zuluhed's body convulsed; fingers connected to the heart, as the saying went, amplifying the agony tenfold. Arthas methodically shifted to the next digit, chopping and healing in a grotesque cycle. Fingers, then toes—five minutes of unrelenting torture, each severance followed by restoration, prolonging the suffering. The air reeked of blood and scorched flesh from the holy mending.
Even Onyxia, the black dragon princess in her human guise, felt a twinge of nausea. Dragons were no strangers to violence, but this clinical brutality bordered on artistry—a human toying with life like a god. She averted her gaze slightly, though her draconic curiosity kept her rooted.
Alleria turned away entirely, her elven grace marred by a grimace. The scene was too visceral, too devoid of honor. She wondered if Arthas had been possessed during the battle, some dark force lingering from his frenzy. Yet, she couldn't deny the logic: orcs had sacked kingdoms, enslaved dragons. Mercy here could doom thousands.
Muradin approached with a hill dwarf in tow, his brow furrowed in concern. "Ye alright there, Arthas? That was... intense."
Arthas looked up, flashing a disarmingly bright smile that belied the blood on his hands. "Of course, Muradin. I'm perfectly fine. Orcs are our enemies—invaders who burn villages and slaughter innocents. I reserve my cruelty for them alone. To my allies, I give everything. Being kind to the enemy is cruelty to ourselves, irresponsibility to the fallen soldiers and grieving families. Don't worry; my mind is clear."
Muradin nodded slowly, relieved. Dwarves understood harsh justice; as long as Arthas wasn't lost to madness, he could report back to Lordaeron without issue. "Aye, that's good then."
Alleria mulled over his words: "To be kind to the enemy is to be cruel to ourselves..." She lifted her gaze, meeting Arthas's eyes with a complex mix of admiration and unease. He smiled back, warm and genuine, though blood still flecked his armor. Blushing faintly, she looked away—perhaps she'd overthought it. He seemed unharmed, resolute.
With concerns addressed, Arthas turned back to Zuluhed, his smile twisting into something sly, almost predatory. It echoed the cold grin he'd wear in darker futures as a death knight, though none here knew that. "Tell me, where is the Demon Soul? Orcs pride themselves on honor, not this skulking sorcery. Speak, and I'll grant you a warrior's end—dignified, swift."
Fear flickered in Zuluhed's eyes, the unbreakable shaman cracking under the endless cycle. "You... you stand no chance against Nekros!"
"Where is Nekros?" Arthas pressed, leaning in.
"Deep within Grim Batol's fortress. You'll never succeed!"
The words hung in the air for a heartbeat. Then, without preamble, Arthas's sword descended, cleaving Zuluhed's head from his shoulders in a clean stroke. The body slumped, blood pooling. No more games; information extracted, threat neutralized. Arthas wiped his blade on the orc's tunic, sheathing it with finality.
Muradin returned, gesturing to the red-skinned dwarf beside him. "Arthas, meet Rom—chieftain of the nearby Redridge Clan."
Rom bowed slightly, his sturdy frame clad in rugged leather and iron. Hill dwarves resembled their Wildhammer and Bronzebeard kin, save for their crimson-tinted skin from generations in these mineral-rich highlands. "Ye have our eternal thanks, Your Highness. We overheard ye seek Grim Batol? I can guide ye there. It's a forsaken hole, abandoned long ago, but treacherous paths lead in."
"You're welcome," Arthas replied graciously. "Humans and dwarves have been steadfast allies—mutual aid makes the world stronger. Thank you for the offer, but we need a moment to regroup."
The team rested amid the carnage, Arthas sinking onto a boulder to catch his breath. The earlier battle's madness had been deliberate—a controlled descent to conquer fear. On a field of flying limbs and screams, terror could paralyze; better to embrace it, hypnotize oneself into the rhythm of war. Fear bred timidity or courage; he'd chosen the latter.
Rom insisted, "Come to our village proper—it's just over them hills. Proper rest awaits."
His "not far" proved dwarven understatement: two rugged mountains traversed, ridges climbed, before the village emerged. Built into sheer cliffs, stone dwellings blended with the terrain, forming natural fortifications. Hill dwarves, like all their kind, were miners at heart; tunnels honeycombed the mountains, linking homes to defensible caverns. This explained their resilience in lore—holding out against dragon-riding orcs through guerrilla tactics and unassailable strongholds.
Arthas accepted a modest chamber, shedding his armor for a thorough bath in a heated spring-fed tub. Cleansed, he reclined, eyes closed, reflecting. The madness? Intentional, a shield against horror. But whispers lingered—subtle urges from some inner shadow, amplified by battle. He pushed them aside; focus on the mission.
A knock echoed. "Come in."
Alleria entered, her green ranger garb hugging her lithe form, bow slung across her back. Post-battle, she exuded a lethal elegance—murderous yet poised. "Arthas, you sent for me?"
He rose, crossing to lock the door behind her. In one fluid motion, he pulled her close, hands encircling her slender waist. His gaze burned with intensity. "Alleria, I need your help. Only you can provide it. I'll repay you—a thousandfold."
Cornered against the wall, she sensed his intent, averting her eyes from the fire in his. "No, we can't... this isn't right. Ugh—!"
Her protest dissolved as he claimed her lips in a forceful kiss. Hot breath mingled, his hands roaming her hips, kneading with possessive fervor. Memories of their prior night surged—passion ignited amid chaos. She could have drawn her dagger, ended the advance with elven swiftness. Instead, her arms wrapped around him, fingers digging into his back. She returned the kiss fiercely, her body twisting instinctively toward pleasure, hips grinding against his.
"Give yourself to me, Alleria," Arthas murmured between breaths, his touch insistent. "I like you—more than that. My ambition isn't kingship; it's godhood. Like Aegwynn, I'll become a demigod, unbound by mortality. I want eternity with you."
Even as desire clouded her mind, Alleria retained clarity. "And your fiancée? Hmph, don't think I haven't heard of your tryst with Kul Tiras's princess!"
"She is herself, you are you. Who decrees one wife alone? You're all mine—I'll let none slip away. I'd sacrifice anything for you. Do you know the cost to resurrect Lirath? Ten years of my life. That's why I seek power—to defy death, to be with you forever."
It was a half-truth, woven with lies. Lifespan lost? Fabrication. His pursuit was power, yes, but this moment? Pure desire—to claim her, body and soul. Alleria's resistance melted under his words and touch, the room filling with their shared heat.
As they entwined, Arthas's mind raced. This alliance with Alleria deepened his web—elf, dragon, dwarf. Grim Batol awaited, the Demon Soul key to freeing Alexstrasza and altering fate. But ambition's whispers grew louder: power not just for survival, but dominion. The line between hero and tyrant blurred, yet he pressed on, logic dictating that strength justified means.
Outside, the village bustled—dwarves repairing weapons, sharing ale. Onyxia lurked in shadows, sensing the shift in Arthas. Her father's plans intertwined with this prince's rise; eggs to steal, empires to build. Muradin shared tales with Rom, forging bonds for future battles.
Hours later, sated and renewed, Arthas and Alleria emerged. The team reconvened, Rom sketching maps to Grim Batol's hidden entrances. "Beware the depths—traps, guardians, and worse."
Arthas nodded, resolve steeled. "We'll succeed. For alliance, for freedom—and for what comes after."
As they prepared to depart, a subtle darkness lingered in Arthas's eyes. Ambition's seed, planted deep, promised glory... or ruin.
--- END OF CHAPTER 34 ---