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(A/N: It is Time. Chaos has shown itself, The factions are mobilizing and War has come to Azeroth.)
With the fall of Lordaeron City, the Great Kingdom had all but collapsed, and the Fel forces raised their ugly heads and revealed their true might—spreading like a putrid disease in every direction.
Wherever the dreaded Scourge marched, land and people alike were corrupted.
Yet not without resistance.
General Abbendis, already frustrated and disillusioned by the capital's failure to support his efforts against the Beastkin threats in the north, had finally acted beyond his station.
Regardless of how his superiors might judge him, he had called upon every garrison in Northern Lordaeron to gather and eradicate the threat once and for all.
Sadly cruel irony followed.
As his grand army was gathered, word reached him of the catastrophe that had befallen the capital—at the hands of none other than Prince Arthas himself.
Or, as he was now called…...
The Lich King.
Abbendis burned with the desire to march his army straight for the ruins of Lordaeron and slay Arthas and every one of his Light forsaken accomplices! and burning whatever remained with Holy Fire.
But thankfully his reason prevailed.
He forced himself to calm down and reassess everything known about the Scourge and the Black Guilds—information swiftly delivered by Archbishop Alonsus, who had escaped the capital alongside other survivors and immediately begun disseminating vital intelligence across the realm.
With this knowledge, Abbendis altered his strategy.
Instead of advancing on the fallen capital, he marched his army to Stratholme, the central city of the Church of the Holy Light.
And without a shadow of a doubt, one of the Scourge's key targets.
Stratholme was more than a holy city—it was a formidable fortress. Its walls were garrisoned by priests, paladins, and seasoned soldiers, and as the headquarters of the Church, the very ground upon which it stood was deeply consecrated.
This sanctified land empowered priests and paladins and bolstered all who fought for the living and a righteous cause.
To daemons, black mages, and the undead, however, it was agony—weakening their powers and eroding their unnatural resilience.
Abbendis transformed Stratholme into both a staging ground and a chokepoint, halting the Scourge's advance in the north. He left Silvermoon to the High Elves, confident they possessed their own means of defense.
From Stratholme, counterattacks could be launched whenever opportunity arose.
The strategy proved effective.
Abbendis and Turalyon—who was present in Stratholme at the time—assumed joint command of the northern front. Their combined forces became known as The Scarlet Crusade.
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While Abbendis held the north, Alonsus, Uther, Tirion, and Saidan regrouped with High General Alexandros Mograine and his army.
Alexandros was consumed by rage and grief upon learning of Lordaeron's fall, yet he felt immense relief when he saw Princess Calia alive.
With her alive it meant that the Royal family was not in fact wiped out making her the Rightful Queen of Lordaeron.
He would sooner kiss an Ork before he calls that Undead Piece of shit his King!
Abbendis immediately had her escorted to a heavily fortified location, guarded by some of his strongest warriors and mages.
As a paladin trained and mentored by Alonsus himself, Alexandros understood the scale of the coming war. Without hesitation, he entrusted overall command to the Archbishop.
Alonsus was not only a master strategist, but a living symbol of faith and unity—someone that entire armies could rally behind without worrying about nationality or loyalty.
Alexandros, Uther, Saidan, and Tirion would serve as both commanders and champions upon the battlefield, leading from the front.
Alonsus acted swiftly, sending urgent requests to the southern kingdoms and calling upon them for aid.
The first to answer was King Magni Bronzebeard, who dispatched an army led by his brother Brann, accompanied by a formidable contingent of heavily armored units.
When Magni and Brann learned of Arthas' return and the atrocities committed in the north, they were shocked and disgusted. Yet what truly ignited their fury was the belief that their brother Muradin had been killed during the expedition with Arthas.
The thought that their second brother had died at the hands of a man Muradin had once called friend forged one of the Dwarves legendary blood feuds.
The Bronzebeards swore by the Maker they would not rest until Arthas was dead!
And they were not alone in answering the call.
King Daelin Proudmoore of Kul Tiras dispatched the Second Fleet to secure sea routes and provide vital logistical support.
King Thoras Trollbane mustered his own army and led it personally, joining forces with Brann before linking up with Alonsus' host.
In a surprising turn of events, Gilneas also pledged support. Genn Greymane allowed allied forces to pass through the Greymane Wall and vowed that his people would not permit the Scourge—or any fel force—to flank the main host through Gilnean territory.
Antonidas, leader of Dalaran, formally declared war upon the Scourge. He sent a powerful contingent of mages led by Modera, one of the Council of Six.
From Aerie Peak, Khardros Wildhammer dispatched the clan's greatest strength: wings of dwarven aerial craft to dominate the skies.
And finally, Gelbin Mekkatorque arrived with gnomish forces of his own.
Stormwind was one of the few human kingdoms unable to send reinforcements. None blamed them—word had spread that Alastor Wrynn was locked in a war against Grimgor Ironhide, the most dangerous Ork on Azeroth, and could not afford to divert his strength.
Alonsus knew that, with the countless deaths in Lordaeron—and the many more yet to come—the enemy would always outnumber them.
Thus, he ordered the combined armies to entrench themselves within fortresses and heavily defended positions.
Containment was vital.
For as the Scourge spread, so too did it grow.
Yet in the days that followed, Alonsus would be approached by an unexpected delegation—one he had scarcely dared hope for, even in the face of such catastrophe.
The Night Elves.
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Malak smiled as he sipped from a glass of exquisite red wine.
Things had gone even better than he had hoped—especially after receiving reports from his subordinates and the daemons he had contracted regarding Arthas.
He very nearly laughed aloud.
Here he had been carefully planning ways to further push Arthas toward the cursed influence of Frostmourne, only for it to prove unnecessary. Arthas had done it himself—killing his own mother and delivering the final, damning push with his own hands.
To the south, Gul'dan's actions had ensured that Stormwind remained occupied. Grimgor kept the Primarch constantly on edge, though Malak felt a twinge of irritation upon learning that Alastor had already pacified the Beastkin in Stranglethorn Vale.
Blasted demigods.
No matter. Ramsey had already initiated their plans within Silvermoon Forest against the High Elves.
That left Malak with the final piece of their grand tapestry of destruction—and rebirth.
"How much longer!?"
Ah yes… this fool.
Malak rolled his eyes as he looked toward King Aiden of Alterac, whose great hall he currently occupied—alone with him.
If Malak had one true complaint about working with Chaos, it was that most of its followers were utter disappointments: lunatics, madmen, zealots, or greedy fools.
Even when granted the blessings of the Four Gods, such individuals would never become favored champions—or even noteworthy cannon fodder—let alone earn ascension.
Only those capable of perceiving and understanding the four distinct essences that comprised the Chaos Gods could earn their chosen master's favor and achieve daemonhood.
And even then, idleness was worse than death. One had to refine their chosen path endlessly to rise within their patron's court—or gain influence as part of Chaos Undivided.
Aiden was not one of those people.
Frankly, Malak found it insulting how easily the pathetic man's loyalty had been bought—with nothing more than promises of immortality and power beyond his wildest dreams.
Aiden was weak, greedy, and resentful. He despised his fellow kings for possessing greater power, territory, and respect—while he languished at the bottom of the hierarchy, unloved even by his people who in his mind should have revered him by duty alone.
He had folded immediately.
Aiden had opened his gates to Malak's forces without resistance, allowing the Black Mages to complete their preparations unhindered. In fact, the palace itself had become one of their primary command centres—where the attacks that paved the way for the current state of the North had been coordinated.
"Didn't I tell you to be patient?" Malak said coldly. "My men are nearly finished. When the ritual is complete, you will have everything you desire."
Malak's glare silenced the sniveling king at once, leaving Aiden shivering as they descended into the palace's underground chamber.
The sight within was monstrous—mind-breaking.
The chamber's vast walls and floor existed somewhere between flesh and stone, veins pulsing with Warp energy across every surface. Runes, sigils, and heretical scriptures covered the space, etched in cursed languages long dead.
At the center lay an immense, intricate magic circle, surrounded by two dozen Black Mages chanting the Dark Tongue in unison.
The chamber felt alive—a twisted, wrong thing pretending at existence.
Aiden shut his eyes, unable to endure the sight. Every glance made his head throb, his sanity slipping further with each heartbeat.
Malak ignored him.
He strode forward, taking his place at the head of the formation as he began chanting in the Dark Tongue—the language of Chaos itself.
Warp energy poured from him, linking him to the Black Mages and the sigils embedded throughout the chamber.
The ground shook violently. The air—no, reality itself—shuddered, as if something vast and unspeakable strained to break through.
The formation released massive pulses of energy that rippled across Alterac, guided by subsidiary circles placed throughout the land—especially in densely populated regions.
Within moments, the majority of Alterac's population felt their vitality—and their very souls—ripped from them. They crumbled to dust before their bodies could even hit the ground.
Fueled by this harvest of souls, the circle unleashed one final, titanic pulse—one that surged beyond the kingdom's borders and tore upward into the heavens.
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Across Azeroth, nearly every living being looked at the sky in shock.
The once blue, serene sky twisted into a sickly purple, clouds cracking with violet lightning.
Confusion rippled through the allied armies, but paladins, priests, and mages felt something far worse—dread.
In Dalaran, Antonidas' eyes widened in horror as he recognized the phenomenon for what it was.
A grand ritual.
And its scale was staggering.
The sky's transformation was merely a side effect. In truth, Azeroth itself was now surrounded by Warp storms!
Antonidas rushed into the Violet Citadel and began issuing orders.
Almost all Kings commanded immediate civilian evacuations to fortified holdings.
And soon, the reason became horrifyingly clear.
Portals tore open across Arda, disgorging hordes of Beastkin, undead, and worse—daemons—assaulting major population centers.
Major territories like Ironforge, Aerie Peak, Kul Tiras, and Gilneas all came under siege, forced to divert forces to defend their homelands.
Though the allied armies possessed the strength to hold the Scourge at bay, the coordinated, multi-front assaults shattered supply lines and logistics.
Reinforcements could no longer be guaranteed.
Convoys risked annihilation.
The war had entered a far deadlier phase.
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In Stormwind City, King Llane gazed skyward with a grim expression, clad in armor and surrounded by his council of generals and advisors.
No matter the age, he thought solemnly, war always finds a way to bare its fangs.
Most civilians had already been evacuated to the inner city under his wife Taria's supervision, leaving only soldiers, mages, priests, and knights within the outer districts.
Llane stood atop the outer wall alongside Varian, Gavinrad, Windsor, and Mathias.
His gaze fixed upon the horizon—where an army of Beastkin and daemons advanced toward the city.
"Activate the shield systems," he commanded. "Ready the defenses."
As orders rang out, Llane drew his master-crafted HF power sword—a weapon forged by his son Alastor himself and gifted to the king.
Turning to face his army, Llane raised his blade.
"Children of Azeroth! Warriors of Stormwind!" he roared."Today, we send these abominations back to their hideous masters—in PIECES!"
The thunderous reply from his soldiers was everything he expected.
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The die was cast.
The stage was set.
Ruin—or salvation.
All would be decided in this one war.
An event that history would remember as—
The Black Dawn.
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