Rise of the Scarlet Vigil Ch. 01

Disclaimer: Rise of the Scarlet Vigilis an unofficial work of fan fiction inspired by the world and lore ofWorld of WarCraft.

World of WarCraft, its characters, locations, organizations, artwork, lore, and all related intellectual property are the property ofBlizzard Entertainmentand/orMicrosoft, along with their respective owners. This story is a non-commercial fan project created purely out of admiration for the WarCraft universe. No copyright infringement is intended, and this work is not affiliated with, endorsed by, or sponsored by Blizzard Entertainment or Microsoft in any way.

This story has been written solely for entertainment and for fellow fans of WarCraft who enjoy exploring "what if?" scenarios within one of gaming's richest fantasy settings.

Author's Note: This story has been a labor of love that has taken me many months to write. Rather than sitting down and writing it all at once, it has been built piece by piece whenever work, family, and life allowed me the time to return to it. Every piece and future chapter represents another opportunity to revisit a world that has meant a great deal to me over the years.

One of the factions that always fascinated me was theScarlet Crusade, and later theScarlet Onslaught. While their fanaticism ultimately led to their downfall, I always felt there was something compelling buried beneath the tragedy. They began with noble intentions before hatred, manipulation, and desperation twisted them into something they were never meant to become.

Following the events of Wrath of the Lich King, it often felt to me as though the Scarlet Onslaught simply faded away. While there are good lore reasons for that, I couldn't help but feel that such an iconic faction deserved one final story. Specifically, one that explored whether redemption could ever be possible after so much darkness.

Rise of the Scarlet Vigilis my attempt to tell that story.

It asks a simple question:What if some of the people the Scourge stole could be given one final chance, not to erase their past, but to become something better because of it?

This is not an official continuation of WarCraft lore. It is my own interpretation, built upon Blizzard's incredible universe while taking creative liberties where the story demands it. Long-time fans will undoubtedly notice familiar faces, places, and events alongside entirely original characters and ideas that exist solely for this narrative.

If you're a fellow WarCraft fan, I sincerely hope you'll enjoy accompanying these characters on their journey. Whether you've followed Azeroth since the OG WarCraft game or joined during more recent adventures, I hope this story captures at least a little of the wonder, tragedy, heroism, and hope that first made me fall in love with this universe.

Thank you for taking the time to read something that began as a simple idea and slowly grew into a passion project. I hope you enjoy the journey. Now, shall we begin?

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The sky above Icecrown Citadel split apart in a scream of blue-white light. Even from the distant heights of Ymirheim, the explosion lit the frozen wastes like the birth of some terrible new sun. Jagged arcs of necromantic energy tore through the clouds overhead, scattering shards of pale light across the eternal dark of Northrend's sky.

For one impossible moment, every living thing stopped, and every dead thing did too. The undead standing throughout the ruined Vrykul city slowly turned toward the distant spire, hundreds of them. Ghouls crouched on icy rooftops; geists clung to broken stone, and Vrykul revenants stood like statues in the snow. Even the death knights, all staring upward, watching for what came next.

Something enormous had happened; they could all feel it down to the rotting marrow of their bones. Then came the sound, and it wasn't heard with ears, but felt. A deep, cracking thunder rolled across the frozen continent like a wound opening inside reality itself. And suddenly, the voices screamed, thousands of them.

A tidal wave of agony and relief burst outward from the distant citadel as the shattered remains of Frostmourne released the souls trapped within. The air itself seemed to howl. Faces formed briefly within the storm above Icecrown before dissolving into streaks of pale light racing into the heavens.

The undead around Ymirheim staggered, with some of them collapsing outright, while others clutched at their skulls, shrieking. The man simply stood there, motionless as snow drifted across his blackened armor as he stared toward the distant citadel. Something was wrong... no, not wrong, missing. For months there had only been one thing inside his head. One voice that was cold, absolute and endless in the commands it gave him.

'Go here. Kill them. Advance. Obey.'

There had never been silence before, not true silence, as even sleep had belonged to that voice. But now, there was nothing, as the structure of command was gone and the absence of it hit harder than any blade. He staggered slightly, gauntleted fingers tightening around the hilt of his runeblade.

'What...'

The thought surfaced slowly, both heavy and unfamiliar.

'What... is happening?'

Around him, the undead began reacting. A nearby ghoul suddenly threw itself upon another without warning, clawing and biting wildly. A skeletal Vrykul roared in confusion as two geists tore at its face. One of the Scourge necromancers stumbled backward, screaming as the undead surrounding him suddenly turned upon each other like starving animals.

There was nothing but panic and chaos, as the order holding everything together had shattered. And beneath it, something else bubbled upward inside him; small voices and fragments of memories that were not Arthas or his commands. They were of him, and they came into his mind in a wild jumble.

There was a flash of torchlight, the salty tang of the cold sea air, red banners snapping in the wind, and laughter around a campfire. A woman's voice saying something he could no longer fully remember. Then there was pain, steel and blood spraying across white snow.

'RUN!'

He jerked violently as the memory hit, then a ghoul slammed into him from the side with a feral shriek. Instinct moved faster than thought as his blade rose, and with one clean strike, the creature's head tumbled into the snow. He stared at it afterward, breathing hard despite lungs that no longer truly needed air.

The body twitched, then stilled as more screaming erupted throughout Ymirheim. Undead had turned upon undead. Vrykul fought beside Scourge monstrosities one moment and against them the next. Necromantic energies crackled wildly through the ruins as control fractured entirely. He looked around frantically, as emotion gripped his conscious mind for the first time in a while.

'What do I do?'

The thought came clearer this time, and it was not a command, but a thought that belonged to him. A towering undead Vrykul suddenly bellowed nearby, swinging an axe through a pack of snarling ghouls before turning its glowing gaze toward him. The death knight froze as the Vrykul charged. Another memory surfaced instantly, but not of words this time. It was emotion, and of those he knew well: fear and desperation.

'Run.'

His body moved before his mind fully caught up as he bolted. The Vrykul roared behind him as he sprinted through the collapsing streets of Ymirheim, boots hammering frozen stone. A skeletal hound lunged from an alleyway, only for him to split its skull apart mid-stride without slowing.

More memories flickered of scarlet red, the smell of incense and a... harbor of all things. People with faces he should have remembered, but he couldn't grasp or hold them. But they were there, and he knew they mattered. A second Vrykul blocked the narrow gate ahead, roaring in confusion as undead fought one another throughout the city.

The death knight dropped low and slid between the giant's legs, his blade flashing as he moved. The Vrykul screamed as its hamstring split apart, but the man kept running. Down icy stairs, past broken siege engines and through blowing snow and ruin. The chaos behind him faded little by little as he descended the mountain paths leading away from Ymirheim. Only then did he realize he was trembling, and not from fear, but from actual thought.

'Who am I?'

The question terrified him more than the battle behind him. He slowed only briefly near the frozen base of the cliffs, turning in a slow circle as blizzard winds howled across the wasteland.

'Where do I go?'

Nothing answered, and then his gaze fixed instantly to the west as something stirred deep inside him. He remembered warmth, safety, and a harbor of all things, and that he had friends there. The sensation hit so hard his chest physically hurt. Something was telling him to go west, but he didn't know why. But it felt right, so he ran again.

Snow lashed against his armor as the blizzard worsened rapidly, visibility shrinking to almost nothing. The world became white and screaming around him as even through undeath, he felt the cold. Not fully like the living, but enough to know that remaining exposed too long would freeze him solid.

The man pressed onward along the rocky base of the cliffs until finally he spotted darkness breaking through the white storm. He saw a cave that was small and narrow, which would do for shelter in this storm. He approached cautiously, runeblade raised, and saw no movement, no glowing eyes, so there was nothing inside. Only silence and faint veins of saronite glimmering weakly through the stone walls like infected blood beneath flesh.

He stepped inside quickly as the storm outside roared louder by contrast. The death knight sank heavily against the cave wall, pulling his ragged cloak tighter around himself out of instinct more than necessity. Snow melted slowly against the black steel of his armor. The cave was freezing, but it was still warmer than outside.

For a long while, he simply sat there, listening, waiting for the voice to return. For commands and purpose, but nothing came, and only silence was in his mind. And beneath that silence, the faint echoes of memories were trying desperately to claw their way back to the surface. He lowered his head into his hands and silently asked that question of himself again.

'Who am I?'

No answer came. There was only the distant howl of the storm outside and the terrible realization that for the first time since his death... he was alone. The storm raged for hours beyond the mouth of the cave. Snow and ice screamed across the frozen cliffs in waves so thick they blotted out the world beyond a few feet.

The death knight sat motionless in the dimness, his back against cold stone, and black gauntlets resting loosely upon his knees. Fragments of memory drifted through his thoughts like broken shards of glass.

Nothing stayed whole for long. Faces came and went in his mind's eye; there was a chapel filled with candlelight and the smell of burning incense. He felt the weight of plate armor upon living shoulders instead of dead flesh. He remembered laughter, but not his own; someone else's that was warm and familiar. The memory slipped away before he could fully grasp it, and he clenched his jaw at its elusiveness.

"Damn it..."

The sound of his own voice startled him, as it was rougher than he remembered. Hollow in places, as if something dragged back from the grave and forced to speak again. Perhaps because that was exactly what he was. He lowered his head, staring down at the blackened runeblade resting beside him. Frost clung to the steel, and pale runes pulsed weakly along its edge like a dying heartbeat.

Another memory surfaced, but one of a battlefield. There was screaming, and scarlet banners snapping violently in the freezing wind. Then there was a voice that came through strong and clear.

"Kalen!"

He froze as that name echoed through his thoughts again. Kalen. Not a command from Arthas, but from him... Kalen. His breathing hitched instinctively, despite his lungs no longer truly needing air. Kalen. The more he focused on it, the stronger it became. Memories began attaching themselves to the name like threads finding their place again.

Kalen Veyr.

Yes, that was it. The realization settled over him slowly and awkwardly, like armor he no longer knew how to wear. He was Kalen, or... he had been. His eyes closed as more fragments surfaced of training yards, a prayer spoken before battle, and a hand resting over his heart while swearing an oath. And then, he heard her voice again, which was soft, teasing, and warm enough to cut through the ice surrounding his mind like sunlight through frost.

"Kalen."

The memory struck him so hard that his eyes snapped open, and for just a moment he saw her. Dark hair touched by torchlight, a tired smile, and gray-green eyes. Then she vanished back into the chaos before he could remember her name. He swallowed hard as he thought of the memory of her.

'Why does that hurt?'

His hand drifted unconsciously toward his chest, but no heartbeat answered him, only emptiness. Another image surfaced suddenly, one of a crimson insignia on a tabard, the symbol burned into his memory with almost painful clarity. At first, he did not understand what he was looking at; then the realization came all at once.

The Scarlet Onslaught.

His eyes widened slightly as the weight of that thought hit him. No... he was not just a soldier, but a paladin. The word carried weight inside him: duty, faith, oath, and conviction. He remembered kneeling before the altar, speaking the vows with dozens of others around him, and believing every word.

Then he looked down at himself now, dead flesh wrapped in blackened armor, empowered by dark runes and necromancy. He was now a creature forged by the very enemy he had sworn to destroy. A bitter laugh escaped him as he thought of what those he had once called his friends would think.

"If they saw me now..."

But he already knew the answer... they would kill him on sight, and part of him could not blame them. Silence settled over the cave once more as the storm outside slowly began to weaken. Kalen stared toward the entrance for a long while, knowing that he should leave. But not west, anywhere but west, as the Onslaught would never accept what he had become.

Even if he explained and begged, the moment they saw the runeblade... his eyes... and the armor... it would end in blood. So why did he still want to go back? The answer came to him quietly, and that was because some part of him needed to know. He needed to know if they had survived, if the people he remembered in fragments were still alive... if she was still alive.

But beyond that, what else was there for him now? The Lich King was gone, and so was his voice, as was the purpose that had been forced into his skull. For the first time since his death, his future belonged entirely to him, and that terrified him more than any battlefield ever had.

Eventually, the wind outside lessened enough for him to risk moving. Kalen rose slowly, adjusting the tattered remains of his cloak before stepping cautiously toward the mouth of the cave. The frozen world beyond had changed as the storm still lingered, but visibility had returned enough for him to see the icy landscape stretching northward.

Movement caught his attention almost immediately; a pair of ghouls wandered aimlessly near the base of the cliffs ahead. They were slow and unfocused, with one stumbling into the other with an irritated hiss before both simply drifted apart again. There was no coordination, no direction, and no purpose, which made Kalen frown.

'What happened to them?'

He did not understand it fully, but he could feel something pressing against the edge of his awareness now. It wasn't domination, but suppression, and Kalen could sense that the undead were still bound somehow. But it was weak and distant, as though whatever had replaced Arthas was less concerned with commanding them than containing them.

The thought unsettled him as he stepped carefully from the cave and began making his way westward. Every movement felt strange now, like learning how to exist again. The frozen paths winding along the cliffs eventually narrowed into old patrol routes. They had once been used by both the Scourge and the Scarlet Onslaught alike, and that was where he saw them.

Riders in black armor, carrying massive runeblades. Kalen immediately ducked behind a ridge of ice, instincts screaming at him before his thoughts even caught up. As they neared, he could tell that these weren't the traditional Scourge he was dealing with. These were Knights of the Ebon Blade, warriors who had the willpower to rebel against Arthas directly.

As a Death Knight in the service of Arthas, they were among those he hated the most, as all Scourge saw them as traitors. He stayed perfectly still as the mounted death knights passed nearby, their Deathchargers whickering absently. One rider slowed slightly as they neared his hiding place, craning their neck to look about.

"The undead are barely responding at all now," a woman muttered.

"Bolvar's doing something," another answered grimly. "Or trying to."

Bolvar... the name meant nothing to Kalen, but the uncertainty in their voices did. Even they did not fully understand what had happened atop Icecrown, which filled Kalen with a strange sort of satisfaction. The patrol continued onward without noticing him, despite their looking around for anything that needed to be put down. Only after the sound of hooves faded into the distance did Kalen finally exhale.

He looked down at himself again, at the armor, the blade, and the runes that adorned him. To the world, he was one of Arthas's monsters, and perhaps he always would be. The thought lingered heavily as he continued west without incident. Hours passed as the frozen wastes slowly gave way to more familiar terrain, climbing up the mountainous terrain, passing just north of Jotunheim.

Then, finally, he reached the rise overlooking Onslaught Harbor, and Kalen stopped dead. The harbor stretched below him beneath gray skies and drifting snow, and for a long moment he simply stared at it in silence.

Memories flickered harder now; of the barracks, training grounds, arguments over rations, and answering the call of the prayer bells. Men and women in scarlet armor laughing around fires before marching back into hell the next morning. They were his people, or they had been once.

He scanned the surrounding ridges carefully, searching for signs of patrols or ambushes, but he saw nothing. No movement on the walls, no sentries, and no banners moving in the wind. That alone sent unease crawling through him. The harbor felt... wrong, as it was quiet, too quiet for an outpost of such devoted followers of the Light.

Kalen narrowed his eyes, then slowly, uncertainly, he began descending toward the shore below. As he moved forward, he remembered that there was no way into the harbor directly, at least not by foot. If he was going to get there, he would have to find a way across the water.

As he reached the shore, he saw a small boat abandoned, just lying there, as though its owner had no further use for it. While this was a fortunate turn of events, he was still careful, looking around everywhere, expecting some sort of trap. After a few moments, Kalen could sense nothing, so he walked forward and checked the boat.

It was a dinghy, and one that had been used hard, but was still waterworthy. Though Kalen was no sailor, he knew enough about boats to work them, and thankfully, this one still had at least one functional oar. He found the second one, but it was barely holding together. It was as though whoever had used it last mistook its use for that of a greatsword, given the cut marks and how battered it was.