Thousands of meters away, Duke and Antonidas could already "see" each other through the arcane winds that carried death's foul stench.
Both of them felt absolutely wretched.
Duke's heart twisted with bitter irony. Sure, he'd known Antonidas would eventually take a dirt nap courtesy of the Lich King, but witnessing a legendary Archmage—a man who'd been slinging spells for the Alliance longer than most soldiers had been breathing—reduced to this shambling mockery? It was enough to make a grown paladin weep into his blessed ale. Duke couldn't help wondering if he'd fare any better when Frostmourne inevitably came knocking at his door.
Spoiler alert: he probably wouldn't, considering his moral compass had the reliability of a drunken goblin's engineering.
The delicious irony wasn't lost on him—here he was, arguably the most duplicitous snake in the Alliance's garden, somehow playing the role of their unwavering champion against the forces of evil. The cosmic joke was so rich it could choke a dragon.
But hey, when you're the guy who can make or break entire kingdoms with a well-timed strategic tantrum, the smartest play is to avoid becoming undead cannon fodder!
Meanwhile, Antonidas had witnessed Duke's spectacular magical coup—hijacking Dalaran's mage towers and turning the Scourge offensive into a very expensive fireworks display. Once again, Duke had swooped in to save the day with all the subtlety of a rampaging infernal.
Something vile and hungry writhed within Antonidas's spectral essence. Hatred didn't just grow—it exploded through his incorporeal form with the enthusiasm of a fel-crazed warlock discovering a new demon to summon.
He triggered the secret backdoor he'd left in his own corpse. Professional paranoia, you might say.
Antonidas shot toward his lifeless body with all the restraint of a child spotting an unguarded candy shop. The anticipation was intoxicating.
He understood perfectly that no matter how many realms separated him from Arthas, that invisible leash would always yank him back. The fallen prince held his chain, and Antonidas was just another attack dog in the Lich King's kennel.
Powerless to rewrite his fate, that's when the whispers started their seductive song.
"Kill Duke and drag him down into our glorious servitude, Antonidas. You'll labor together in death's embrace, both craving the sweet surrender of obedience. Arthas is my treasured firstborn death knight—he'll command you for eternity, and you'll thank him for the privilege."
Frostmourne's honeyed poison urged Antonidas to murder Duke and condemn the Alliance's greatest hero to the same damned existence.
Absolutely brilliant!
If the Alliance's supreme commander transformed into a lich, it would deliver a psychological haymaker that would leave the entire Alliance reeling on the canvas!
A hollow, bone-chilling cackle began bubbling from Antonidas's throat.
"Perfect! Once I reclaim my flesh, I'll ascend as a supreme lich with power rivaling the greatest archmages who ever lived..."
Evil whispers are reality's cruelest brainwashing technique. They don't simply hypnotize—they corrupt through relentless psychological erosion until the victim embraces their tormentor's will as their own deepest desire.
Antonidas's spirit plunged into his waiting corpse.
He sank into the familiar flesh that had once been his earthly vessel.
Sweet merciful Light!
The sensation of mortality flooded back!
For one intoxicating moment, Antonidas dared believe resurrection was possible.
Alas, hope proved as fragile as a gnome's attention span.
He was no longer remotely human.
Arthas had severed every escape route from the very beginning. Once Frostmourne corrupted a soul, there was no crawling back to the light.
Wraith first, then lich. The career progression of the eternally damned.
"At least that backstabbing demon Balnazzar kept his filthy claws off my corpse!" Antonidas snarled with vindictive satisfaction.
To maintain his elaborate deception, Balnazzar had preserved the old wizard's body in pristine condition—no demonic modifications, no telltale evil scarring. While originally intended for a grander conspiracy, this oversight now benefited Antonidas tremendously.
Damaged remains would have crippled his lichdom before it even began.
The instant Antonidas reclaimed his flesh, life began its rapid retreat. His weathered skin contracted with visible urgency, transforming from aged parchment to desiccated leather. His once-proud white beard and hair dulled to the color of grave dust. Shrinking skin and muscle made his eyeballs bulge obscenely from their sockets.
'Opening his eyes' meant unleashing his newfound undead senses. Antonidas stared at his hands—now skeletal claws wrapped in mummy-dry skin—and his heart would have broken if it still beat.
"NOOOOOO!" His first scream denied the horrific truth, followed by jealousy that burned through his very essence: "I refuse to suffer this torment alone! Duke must join me! DUKE CANNOT ESCAPE!"
But then something occurred that Antonidas had never anticipated in his most paranoid nightmares.
His maniacal ranting died mid-syllable, cut off as if an invisible hand had seized his throat.
If liches could still sweat cold terror, Antonidas would have been drenched.
On Dalaran's outskirts, Duke reunited with Kael'thas.
Kael'thas had clearly sprinted back to his personal tower. He surveyed the chaos with bewildered eyes. "That lich Antonidas didn't pursue us? And his magical authority..."
Before them, the battle for Dalaran's mage towers raged in spectacular devastation. Hundreds of arcane spires unleashed their fury upon each other in a pyrotechnic symphony of mutual annihilation. Elemental energy streams crisscrossed the sky before exploding against rival towers. Had this not been a desperate life-or-death struggle, the display would have made the finest festival fireworks weep with envy.
The catastrophic magical bombardment obliterated half the city in mere heartbeats.
Entire districts vanished beneath sheets of flame and arcane lightning.
Unlike other cities that fell to conventional fire and sword, Dalaran's destruction carried an otherworldly artistry. The chaotic energy maelstrom transformed collapsing architecture into something resembling avant-garde sculpture crafted by a mad god.
One wizard tower detonated spectacularly.
Originally consumed by fire elementals, the explosion tore a rift into the frost elemental plane. Glacial energy erupted outward, instantly flash-freezing every piece of debris mid-flight.
Mage apprentices seeking refuge near the tower and undead soldiers caught in the blast became crystal statues in the span of a heartbeat.
The city's cobblestone streets rippled in impossible waves, rising and falling in geometric patterns that defied physics. All of Dalaran trembled as if the earth itself was having violent seizures.
However, thanks to Duke's emergency commandeering of the mage tower network and the crystal-clear directional signals blazing from each spire, roughly half of Dalaran's magical community managed to evacuate westward.
Beyond the city walls, one hundred thousand warriors stood ready for war!
Spotting Duke and Kael'thas emerging from the chaos, Mograine—who had wisely returned to assume field command—exhaled with profound relief: "Mutual covering retreat! The entire army's destination is Silverpine Forest!"
Initially, the army centered around the Scarlet Crusade maintained rigid discipline. Multiple massive formations faced Dalaran while executing textbook alternating withdrawals.
Since the supply trains had departed hours earlier, the remaining forces consisted primarily of combat veterans, along with scattered Dalaran mages and city guards.
Kael'thas raised Dalaran's banner south of the main army. The flag acted as a beacon, rapidly drawing panicked Dalaran refugees into their protective embrace.