The Fall of the Lich King: A Frostmourne’s Edge in Icecrown
There are moments in *World of Warcraft* that transcend pixels and code, burning themselves into memory like a brand. For me, that moment came not in victory, but in the crushing weight of Arthas’ voice as he whispered, *'I see only darkness before me...'*—the instant before our guild finally shattered Frostmourne, and with it, the Lich King’s reign. But the road to that moment was paved with frostbitten fingers, sleepless nights, and the kind of camaraderie that only a 25-man raid on the edge of collapse could forge. Icecrown Citadel was more than a raid—it was a fortress of dread, a monolith of spilled blood and broken guilds. Our first steps into the frozen halls were hesitant, our voices crackling over Ventrilo with the nervous energy of players who had spent months gearing up in Ulduar and Trial of the Crusader, only to face the looming specter of *the* endgame. The Lower Spire was a gauntlet: Lord Marrowgar’s bone storms sent healers into a panic, Lady Deathwhisper’s cul...