Arthas: Rise of the Lich King

PART TWO: THE BRIGHT LADY

It was exactly the sort of day Jaina Proudmoore didn’t like—sullen, stormy, and bitterly cold. While the ocean breezes always made Theramore feel cool, even in the hot summer months, the chill of the wind and rain that now pummeled the city cut to the bone. The ocean churned unhappily, the sky above it gray and menacing. It showed no signs of letting up. Outside, training fields turned to mud, travelers sought the shelter of the inn, and Dr. VanHowzen would need to watch the injured in his care for signs of illness brought on by the sudden cold and wetness. Jaina’s guards stood in the downpour without complaint. No doubt they were miserable. Jaina ordered one of her attendants to take the pot of tea she had just brewed for her and her chancellor down to the stalwart guards enduring their duty. She could wait for a second pot to be ready.

Thunder rumbled and there was a flash of lightning. Jaina, snug in her tower surrounded by the books and papers she so loved, shivered and drew her cloak about her more closely, then turned to one who was doubtless even more uncomfortable than she.

Magna Aegwynn, former Guardian of Tirisfal, mother to the great Magus Medivh, once the most powerful woman in the world, sat in a chair drawn close to the fire, sipping a cup of tea. Her gnarled hands closed about the cup, seeking its warmth. Her long hair, white as freshly fallen snow, was loose about her shoulders. She looked up as Jaina approached and sat in the chair across from her. Her green eyes, a deep, knowing emerald, missed nothing.

“You’re thinking about him.”

Jaina scowled and looked into the fire, trying to distract herself with the dancing flames. “I didn’t know being a Guardian meant you could read minds.”

“Minds? Pfft. It’s your face and bearing I can read like a primer, child. That furrow in your brow crinkles just so when it’s he who occupies your mind. Besides, you always get in this mood when the weather turns.”

Jaina shivered. “Am I truly so easy to read?”

Aegwynn’s sharp features softened and she patted Jaina’s hand. “Well, I’ve got a thousand years of observation under my belt. I’m a bit better at reading people than most.”

Jaina sighed. “It’s true. When the weather is cold, I do think of him. About what happened. About whether I could have done anything.”

Aegwynn sighed. “A thousand years and I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love. Too much else to worry about. But if it’s any consolation to you—he’s been on my mind, too.”

Jaina blinked, surprised and unsettled by the comment. “You’ve been thinking about Arthas?”

The former Guardian regarded her keenly. “The Lich King. He’s not Arthas, not anymore.”

“I don’t need to be reminded of that,” Jaina said, a touch too sharply. “Why do you—”

“Can’t you feel it?”

Slowly, Jaina nodded. She had tried to chalk it up to the weather and the tensions that always ran high when it was so damp and unpleasant. But Aegwynn was suggesting that there was more to it than that, and Jaina Proudmoore, thirty years of age, ruler of Theramore Isle, knew the old woman was right. Old woman. A smile flickered on her lips as she thought about the words. She herself was well past her own youth, a youth in which Arthas Menethil had played so significant a role.

“Tell me of him,” Aegwynn said, sitting back in her chair. At that moment, one of the servants came with a fresh pot of tea and cookies hot from the oven. Jaina accepted a cup gratefully.

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“No,” Aegwynn retorted. “You told me the facts of what happened. I want you to tell me about him. Arthas Menethil. Because whatever’s going on right now up in Northrend—and yes, I think something is going on—it’s about Arthas, not the Lich King. Not yet at any rate. Besides,” and the old woman grinned, the wrinkles that lined her face overshadowed by the impish, girlish glint in her emerald eyes, “it’s a cold and rainy day. And that’s exactly the sort of day stories were made for.”

Jaina Proudmoore hummed a little as she strode through the gardens of Dalaran. She’d been here for eight years now, and the city never lost its sense of wonder. Everything here emanated magic, and to her it was almost like a scent, a fragrance of everything in bloom, and she inhaled it with a smile.

Of course, some of that “fragrance” was that of actual flowers in bloom; the gardens of this place were as saturated with magic as everything else. She had never seen healthier, more colorful flowers, or eaten more delicious fruits and vegetables than here. And the knowledge! Jaina felt she had learned more in the last eight years than in her entire life—and most of that in the last two, since Archmage Antonidas had formally taken her as his apprentice. Few things contented her more than sitting curled up in the sun with a cold glass of sweet nectar and a pile of books. Of course, some of the rarer parchments needed to be protected from sunlight and spilled nectar, so the next best thing was sitting inside one of the many rooms, wearing gloves so her hands would not damage the fragile paper, carefully perusing something that was older almost than she could comprehend.

But for now, she just wanted to wander in the gardens, feeling the living earth beneath her feet, smelling the incredible scents, and, when hunger gnawed at her stomach, reaching up and plucking a ripe goldenbark apple warm from the sunlight and crunching it happily.

“In Quel’Thalas,” came a smooth, cultured voice, “there are trees that tower over these in a glory of white bark and golden leaves, that all but sing in the evening breezes. I think you would enjoy seeing them someday.”

Jaina turned to offer Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider, son to Anasterian, king of the quel’dorei elves, a smile and a deep curtsey. “Your Highness,” she said. “I wasn’t aware you’d returned. A pleasure. And yes, I’m certain I would.”

Jaina was the daughter, if not of royalty, of nobility and of a ruler. Her father, Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, ruled the city-state of Kul Tiras, and Jaina had grown up accustomed to interaction with nobility. And yet, Prince Kael’thas unnerved her. She wasn’t quite sure what it was. He was handsome, certainly, with that grace and beauty that all elves possessed. Tall, with hair like spun gold that fell halfway down his back, he always looked to her like a figure out of legend rather than a real, living person. Even though he was currently clad in the simpler violet and gold robes of a mage of Dalaran and not the lavish robes he would wear to official occasions, he never seemed to lose his stiffness. Perhaps that was it—there was a sort of…antiquated formality about him. Too, he was much older than she, though he looked about her age. He was sharply intelligent and an extremely talented and powerful mage, and some of the students whispered that he was one of the Six, the secret membership of the highest ranking magi of Dalaran. So she supposed she wasn’t that much of a country bumpkin to find him intimidating.

He reached up and took an apple himself, biting into it. “There is a certain heartiness about food native to human lands that I have come to appreciate.” He smiled conspiratorially. “Sometimes elven food, while certainly delicious and attractively presented, leaves one still hungry for something more substantial.”

Jaina smiled. Prince Kael’thas always tried so hard to put her at ease. She only wished it worked better. “Few things are nicer than an apple and a slice of Dalaran sharp,” she agreed. The silence stretched between then, awkward despite the casualness of the setting and the warmth of the sun. “So, you are back for a while?”

“Yes, my business in Silvermoon has concluded for the time being. So I should not need to depart again anytime soon.” He looked at her as he took another bite of the apple, his handsome features schooled to be impassive. Still, Jaina knew he was waiting for her reaction.

“We are all pleased at your return, Your Highness.”

He wagged a finger at her. “Ah, I’ve told you, I would prefer it if you would simply call me Kael.”

“I’m sorry, Kael.”

He looked at her and a hint of sorrow passed over his perfect features, gone so quickly that Jaina wondered if she had imagined it. “How do your studies progress?”

“Very well,” she said, warming to the conversation now that it was back on scholastic ground. “Watch!” She pointed to a squirrel perched in a high branch, nibbling on an apple, and murmured a spell. At once it transformed into a sheep, a look of comical surprise on its face as the branch broke beneath its weight and it started to fall. Immediately Jaina extended a hand and the squirrel-sheep halted in midair. Gently she lowered it unharmed to the ground. It bleated at her, twitching its ears, and after a moment again resumed the shape of a very confused-looking squirrel. It sat on its haunches, chattered at her angrily, then with a flick of its fluffy tail leaped up into the tree again.

Kael’thas chuckled. “Well done! No more setting books on fire, I hope?”

Jaina turned scarlet, remembering the incident. When she’d first arrived, her talent with fire had needed some desperate honing. She’d accidentally incinerated a tome while working with Kael’thas—one he’d actually been holding at the time. He’d responded by insisting that for the next few months, she would need to practice all fire spells in the vicinity of the pools that encircled the prison area. “Er…no, that hasn’t happened for a while.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. Jaina…” He stepped forward, tossing away the half-eaten apple, smiling gently. “I wasn’t making idle conversation when I invited you to come to Quel’Thalas. Dalaran is a marvelous city, and some of the finest magi in Azeroth live here. I know you’re learning much. But I think you would enjoy visiting an entire land where magic is so much a part of the culture. Not just a part of the city, or confined to a handful of elite, educated magi. Magic is the birthright of every citizen. We are all embraced by the Sunwell. Surely you must have some curiosity about it yourself?”

She smiled at him. “I do indeed. And I would love to go there someday. But I think for the moment, my studies can be best advanced here.” Her smile stretched into a grin. “Where people know what to do when I light books on fire.”

He chuckled at that, but his sigh was sad. “Perhaps you are right. And now if you will excuse me—” He gave her a wry grin. “Archmage Antonidas demands a recounting of my time in Silvermoon. Nonetheless, this prince and mage looks deeply forward to more demonstrations of how your training has advanced…and more time spent with you.”

Kael’thas placed a hand to his heart and bowed. Not knowing how to respond, Jaina settled for a curtsey, then watched him go, striding through the gardens like the sun, head high, every inch of him exuding confidence and coiled grace. Even the dirt seemed unwilling to cling to his boots and robe hem.

Jaina crunched a final bite of the apple, then she, too, tossed it away. The squirrel she’d polymorphed earlier scurried headfirst down the trunk, to claim a prize more reachable than the apple that still hung on the tree.

A pair of hands abruptly covered her eyes.

She started, but only in mild surprise—no one who posed a threat would be able to breach the powerful wards erected about the magical city.

“Guess who?” a male voice whispered, but still holding tones of mirth. Jaina, her eyes covered, considered, fighting back a smile.

“Hm…. your hands are calloused, so you’re not a wizard,” she said. “You smell like horses and leather….” Her own small hands brushed feather-light over strong fingers, touching a large ring. She felt the shape of the stone, the design—the seal of Lordaeron.

“Arthas!” she exclaimed, surprise and delight warming her voice as she turned to face him. He uncovered her eyes at once, and grinned down at her. He was less physically perfect than Kael’thas; his hair, like the elven prince’s, was blond, but simply yellow rather than looking like spun gold. He was tall and well-built, seeming solid rather than fluidly graceful to her. And despite the fact that he was of a rank equal to Kael’thas—although she wondered if privately Kael doubted that; the elves seemed to think themselves superior to all humans, regardless of rank—there was an ease about him that Jaina responded to immediately.

Decorum returned to her and she dropped a curtsey. “Your Highness, this is an unlooked-for surprise. What are you doing here, if I may ask?” A sudden thought sobered her. “All is well in Capital City, is it not?”

“Arthas, please. In Dalaran, the magi rule, and mere men must give deference.” His sea-green eyes twinkled with good humor. “And we are comrades in mischief, after sneaking off to see the internment camps, aren’t we?”

She relaxed and smiled. “I suppose we are.”

“In answer to your question, everything is just fine. In fact, so little of real import is going on that my father agreed to my request to come here for a few months to study.”

“Study? But—you are a member of the Order of the Silver Hand. You’re not going to become a mage, are you?”

He laughed and drew her arm through his as they walked back toward the student’s quarters. She easily fell in step with him.

“Hardly. Such intellectual dedication is beyond me, I fear. But it did occur to me that one of the best places in Azeroth to learn about history, the nature of magic, and other things a king needs to know about is right here in Dalaran. Fortunately, Father and your archmage agreed.”

As he spoke, he covered Jaina’s hand, resting on his arm, with his own. It was a friendly and courteous gesture, but Jaina felt a little spark go through her. She glanced up at him. “I’m impressed. The boy who sneaked me out in the middle of the night to go spying on orcs was not quite so interested in history and knowledge.”

Arthas chuckled and bent his head conspiratorially down to hers. “Honestly? I’m still not. I mean, I am, but that’s not the real reason I came here.”

“All right, now I’m confused. Why did you come to Dalaran then?” They had reached her quarters and she stopped, turning to face him and releasing his arm.

He didn’t answer at first, merely held her gaze with his and smiled knowingly. Then he took her hand and kissed it—a courtly gesture, one she had experienced many times from many noble gentlemen. His lips lingered just an instant longer than was strictly proper, and he didn’t release her hand at once.

Her eyes widened. Was he implying…had he really contrived to come to Dalaran for a few months—no mean feat, Antonidas was notoriously leery of outsiders—simply…to see her? Before she could recover sufficiently to ask the question, he winked at her and bowed.

“I will see you tonight at dinner, my lady.”

The dinner was a formal one. The return of Prince Kael’thas and the arrival of Prince Arthas on the same day had sent those who served the Kirin Tor into a flurry of activity. There was a large dining room that was reserved for special occasions, and it was here that the dinner was hosted.

A table large enough to seat over two dozen stretched from one end of the room to the other. Overhead, three chandeliers twinkled with brightly burning candles, echoed by the candles burning on the table. Sconces along the walls held torches, and to keep the ambiance gentle while still providing sufficient illumination, several globes hovered around the sides of the room, ready to be summoned where a little extra light might be needed. Servants rarely intruded, save to bring out and clear the courses; bottles of wine poured themselves with the flick of a finger. Flute, harp, and lute provided soothing background music, their graceful notes created by magic rather than human hands or breaths of air.

Archmage Antonidas presided in one of his rare appearances. He was a tall man, seeming all the taller because of his extremely thin build. His long beard now had much more gray than brown in it, and his head was completely bald, but his eyes were alert and piercing. Present also was Archmage Krasus, upright and alert, his hair catching the candle-and torchlight to gleam mostly silver, with red and black streaks. Many others were in attendance, all of high rank. Jaina, in fact, was far and away the lowest-ranking person present, and she was the archmage’s apprentice.

Jaina came from a military background, and one of the things her father had instilled in her was a solid understanding of her strengths and weaknesses. “It is as much of a mistake to underestimate yourself as to overestimate yourself,” Daelin had once told her. “False modesty is as bad as false pride. Know exactly what you are capable of at any moment, and act accordingly. Any other path is folly—and could be deadly in battle.”

She knew she was deft in the magical arts. She was intelligent and focused, and had learned much in the short time she had already been here. Surely Antonidas would not take on an apprentice as a charity case. With no sense of the false pride her father had warned her so judiciously about, she understood she had the potential to become a powerful mage. She wanted to succeed on her own merit, not be advanced because an elven prince enjoyed her company. She fought to keep her face from betraying her irritation as she spooned up another mouthful of turtle bisque.

The conversation, not surprisingly as the internment camps were located fairly close to Dalaran, focused on the orcs, although the mage city liked to think itself above such things.

Kael reached a long, elegant hand for another slice of bread and began buttering it. “Lethargic or no,” he said, “they are dangerous.”

“My father, King Terenas, agrees with your assessment, Prince Kael’thas,” Arthas said, smiling charmingly at the elf. “That’s why the camps exist. It is unfortunate that they cost so much to maintain, but surely, a little gold is a small price for the safety of the people of Azeroth.”

“They are beasts, brutes,” said Kael’thas, his normally tenor voice dropping in his disgust. “They and their dragons damaged Quel’Thalas badly. Only the Sunwell’s energies prevented them from wreaking even more havoc than they did. You humans could solve the problem of protecting your people without taxing them so severely by simply executing the creatures.”

Jaina recalled the one glimpse she had seen of the orcs. They had looked weary to her, broken and dejected. They’d had children with them.

“Have you been to the camps, Prince Kael’thas?” she said tartly, speaking before she could stop herself. “Have you actually seen what they have become?”

Color rose in Kael’thas’s cheeks for a moment, but he kept his expression pleasant. “No, Lady Jaina, I have not. Nor do I see any need to. I see what they have done whenever I behold the burned trunks of the glorious trees of my homeland, and pay my respects to those slain in that attack. And surely you have not seen them, either. I cannot imagine that so refined a lady would wish to be given a tour of the camps.”

Jaina very carefully did not look at Arthas as she replied, “While His Highness gives me a lovely compliment, I do not think that refinement has any bearing on one’s desire to see justice. Indeed, I think it rather more likely that a refined individual would not wish to see sentient beings slaughtered like animals.” She gave him a pleasant smile and continued eating her soup. Kael’thas gave her a searching look, confused by her reaction.

“The law is Lordaeron’s, and King Terenas may do as he sees fit in his own realm,” Antonidas broke in.

“Dalaran and every other Alliance kingdom also must pay for their upkeep,” said a mage Jaina did not know. “Surely we have a voice in this, since we are paying for it?”

Antonidas waved a thin hand. “It is not the issue of who pays for the camps, or indeed whether the camps are even necessary. It is this strange lethargy of the orcs that intrigues me. I have researched what little we have on orcish history, and I do not believe it is confinement that renders them so listless. Nor do I believe it is an illness—at least, not one that we need worry about contracting.”

Because Antonidas never indulged in idle chatter, everyone stopped their bickering and turned to listen to him. Jaina was surprised. This was the first she had heard from any of the magi regarding the orcish situation at all. She had no doubt that this was a deliberate decision on Antonidas’s part to reveal this information at this time. With both Arthas and Kael’thas present, word would travel swiftly throughout Lordaeron and Quel’Thalas. Antonidas did little by accident.

“If it is not an illness, nor a direct result of their internment,” Arthas said pleasantly, “then what do you think it is, Archmage?”

Antonidas turned toward the young prince. “It is my understanding that the orcs were not always so bloodthirsty. Khadgar told me what he had learned from Garona, who—”

“Garona was the half-breed who murdered King Llane,” Arthas said, all trace of good humor gone. “With all due respect, I do not think we can trust anything such a creature says.”

Antonidas lifted up a calming hand, as some of the others began to murmur agreement. “This information came before she turned traitor,” he said. “And it has been verified through—other sources.” He smiled a little, deliberately refusing to identify what “other sources” he had consulted. “They committed themselves to demonic influence. Their skin turned green, their eyes red. I believe they were saturated with this external darkness by the time of the first invasion. Now they have been cut off from that source of sustenance. I think we are seeing not an illness, but withdrawal. Demonic energy is a potent thing. To be denied it would have dire consequences.”

Kael’thas waved a hand dismissively. “Even if such a theory is correct, why should we care about them? They were foolish enough to trust demons. They were thoughtless enough to permit themselves to become addicted to these corruptive energies. I, for one, do not think it is wise to ‘help’ them find a cure for this addiction, even if it could return them to a peaceful state. Right now, they are powerless and crushed. It is how I—and anyone in his right mind—prefer to see them, after what they have done to us.”

“Ah, but if they can be returned to a peaceful state, then we will not have to keep them locked up in the camps, and the money can be distributed elsewhere,” Antonidas said mildly, before the entire table could erupt in argument. “I’m sure King Terenas does not levy these fees simply to line his own pockets. How does your father fare, Prince Arthas? And your family? I regret that I was unable to attend your initiation ceremony, but I hear it was quite the event.”

“Stormwind was most gracious to me,” Arthas said, smiling warmly and digging into the second course of delicately broiled trout served with sautéed greens. “It was good to see King Varian again.”

“His lovely queen has recently provided him with an heir, I understand.”

“Indeed. And if the way little Anduin grips my finger is any indication of how he’ll grip a sword one day, he’ll make a fine warrior.”

“While we all pray your coronation day is many years distant, I daresay that a royal wedding would be welcomed,” Antonidas continued. “Have any young ladies caught your eye, or are you still Lordaeron’s most eligible bachelor?”

Kael’thas turned his attention to his plate, but Jaina knew he was following the conversation keenly. She kept her own face carefully composed.

Arthas did not look in her direction as he laughed and reached for the wine. “Ah, that would be telling, would it not? And where’s the fun in that? There’s plenty of time left for such things.”

Mixed feelings washed over Jaina. She was a little disappointed, but also somewhat relieved. Perhaps it was best if she and Arthas remained only friends. After all, she had come here to learn how to be the most accomplished mage she could become, not flirt. A student of magic needed to be disciplined, to be logical, not emotional. She had duties, and needed to perform them with her full attention.

She needed to study.

“I need to study,” Jaina protested a few days after the dinner, when Arthas approached her leading two horses.

“Come on, Jaina.” Arthas grinned. “Even the most diligent student needs to take a break now and then. It’s a beautiful day and you should be out enjoying it.”

“I am,” she said. It was true; she was in the gardens with her books, rather than cloistered in one of the reading rooms.

“A bit of exercise will help you think better.” He extended a hand to her as she sat underneath the tree. She smiled despite herself.

“Arthas, you will be a magnificent king one day,” she said teasingly, grasping his hand and allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “No one can seem to deny you anything.”

He laughed at that and held her horse while she mounted. She was wearing trousers today, light linen breeches, and was able to sit astride rather than sidesaddle with long robes. He swung up easily on his own horse a moment later.

Jaina glanced at the horse he was riding—a bay mare, rather than the white stallion fate had snatched from him. “I don’t think I ever said how sorry I was about Invincible,” she said quietly. The mirth left his face, and it was like a shadow passing over the sun. Then the smile returned, slightly sobered.

“It’s all right, but thanks. Now—I have picnic supplies and the day awaits. Let’s go!”

It was a day Jaina would remember for the rest of her life, one of those perfect late summer days where the sunlight seemed thick and golden as honey. Arthas set a hard pace, but Jaina was an experienced rider and kept up easily. He took her far away from the city and along stretches of green, expansive meadows. The horses seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as their riders, their ears pricked forward and their nostrils flaring as they inhaled the rich scents.

The picnic was simple but delicious fare—bread, cheese, fruit, some light white wine. Arthas lay back, folding his arms behind his head, and dozed for a bit while Jaina kicked off her boots, digging her feet into the thick, soft grass as she sat with her back to a tree, and read for a while. The book was interesting—A Treatise on the Nature of Teleportation—but the languid heat of the day, the vigorous exercise, and the soft hum of cicadas served to lull her to sleep as well.

Jaina awoke some time later slightly chilled; the sun was starting to go down. She sat up, knuckling the sleep out of her eyes, to realize that Arthas was nowhere to be seen. Nor was his horse. Her own gelding, reins draped about a tree branch, grazed contentedly.

Frowning, she got to her feet. “Arthas?” There was no answer. Likely he had just decided to go for a quick exploration and would be back any moment. She strained to listen for the sound of hoofbeats, but there were none.

There were still orcs loose, wandering around. Or so the rumors went. And mountain cats and bears—less alien but no less dangerous. Mentally Jaina went over her spells in her mind. She was sure she’d be able to defend herself if she was attacked.

Well—fairly sure.

The attack was sudden and silent.

A thump against the back of her neck and cold wetness was the first and only clue she had. She gasped and whirled. Her attacker was a blur of motion, leaping to another hiding space with the speed of a stag, pausing only long enough to fire another missile at her. This one caught her in the mouth and she started to choke—with laughter. She pawed at the snow, gasping a little as some of it slid down her shirt.

“Arthas! You don’t fight fair!”

Her answer was four snowballs rolled in her direction, and she scrambled to pick them up. He’d obviously climbed high enough to find the places in the mountains where winter had come early, and returned with snowballs as trophies. Where was he? There—a flash of his red tunic—

The fight continued for a while, until both had run out of ammunition. “Truce!” Arthas called, and when Jaina agreed, laughing so hard she could barely get the word out, he leaped from his place of concealment among the rocks and ran to her. He hugged her, laughing as well, and she was pleased to see that he, too, had traces of snow in his hair.

“I knew it all those years ago,” he said.

“Knew w-what?” Jaina had been pelted with so many snowballs that despite the fact that it was late summer, she was chilled. Arthas felt her shivering and tightened his arms around her. Jaina knew she should pull back; a friendly and spontaneous hug was one thing, but to linger in his embrace was something else. But she stayed where she was, letting her head rest against his chest, her ear pressed against his heart, hearing it thump rhythmically and rapidly. She closed her eyes as one hand came up to stroke her hair, removing bits of snow as he spoke.

“The day I first saw you, I thought that this would be a girl I could have fun with. Someone who wouldn’t mind going for a swim on a hot summer day, or”—he stepped back a little, brushing a few bits of melting pieces of winter off her face and smiling—“or getting a snowball in the face. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She smiled in return, suddenly warmed. “No. No you didn’t.” Their eyes met and Jaina felt heat coming to her cheeks. She moved to step back, but his arm encircled her as firmly as an iron band. He continued to touch her face, trailing strong, calloused fingers down the curve of her cheek.

“Jaina,” he said quietly, and she shivered, but not from cold, not this time. It was not proper. She should move back. Instead she lifted her face and closed her eyes.

The kiss was gentle at first, soft and sweet, the first Jaina had ever known. As if of their own will, her arms crept up to drape around his neck and she pressed against him as the kiss deepened. She felt as though she was drowning, and he was the only solid thing in the world.

This was what—who—she wanted. This youth who was her friend despite his title, who saw and understood her scholarly character but also knew how to coax forth the playful and adventurous girl who didn’t often have a chance to come out—who wasn’t often glimpsed.

But he had seen all of who she was, not just the face she presented to the world.

“Arthas,” she whispered as she clung to him. “Arthas…”

It was a good few months, in Dalaran. Arthas found, somewhat to his surprise, that he actually was learning things that would be useful for a king to know. There were also plenty of opportunities to enjoy the lingering summer and first cool hints of autumn, and he loved riding, even if he felt a pang in his chest every time he mounted a horse that was not Invincible.

And there was Jaina.

He’d not planned on kissing her initially. But when he found himself with her in his arms, her eyes bright with laughter and good humor, he’d done so. And she’d responded. Her schedule was more demanding and rigorous than his, and they had not seen each other nearly as much as they had wanted to. When they had, it was usually at public functions. And both had agreed without discussing it at all that it would not do to give the rumor mill any grist.

It lent an extra spice to the relationship. They stole moments when they could—a kiss in an alcove, a fleeting look at a formal dinner. Their first outing had been completely innocent at the outset; but now they avoided such things assiduously.

He memorized her schedule so as to “bump” into her. She found excuses to wander into the stables or in the courtyard that Arthas and his men used as practice areas to keep their battle skills sharp.

Arthas loved every risky, daring minute of it.

Now he waited in a little-used hallway, standing in front of a bookshelf, pretending to peruse the titles. Jaina would be coming in from her fire spell practice; out of habit, she told him with a slightly embarrassed grin, she still trained near the jail area and the many pools of water. She’d have to cross through this area to get to her room. His ears strained for the sound. There it was—the soft, swift pad of her slippered feet moving across the floor. He turned, taking a book down and pretending to look at it, watching for her out of the corner of her eye.

Jaina was clad, as usual, in traditional apprentice robes. Her hair looked like sunshine and her face was set in her typical expression of a concentrated furrow, one of deep thought, not displeasure. She hadn’t even noticed him. Quickly he put the book away and darted out into the hallway before she could get too far, grasping her arm and tugging her into the shadows.

As ever, she was never startled by him, and met him halfway, clutching the books to her chest with one arm while the other went around his neck as they kissed.

“Hello, my lady,” he murmured, kissing her neck, grinning against her skin.

“Hello, my prince,” she murmured happily, sighing.

“Jaina,” came a voice, “why are you—”

They sprang apart guiltily, staring at the intruder. Jaina gasped softly and color sprang to her face. “Kael…”

The elf’s face was carefully composed, but anger burned in his eyes, and his jaw was set. “You dropped a book as you left,” he said, lifting the tome. “I followed you to return it.”

Jaina glanced up at Arthas, biting her lower lip. He was as startled as she, but he forced an easy smile. He kept his arm around Jaina as he turned to Kael’thas.

“That’s very kind of you, Kael,” he said. “Thanks.”

For a moment, he thought Kael’thas would attack him. Anger and outrage fairly crackled around the mage. He was powerful, and Arthas knew that he wouldn’t stand a chance. Even so, he kept his gaze even with the elven prince’s, not backing down an inch. Kael’thas clenched his fists and remained where he was.

“Ashamed of her are you, Arthas?” Kael’thas hissed. “Is she only worth your time and attention if no one knows about her?”

Arthas’s eyes narrowed. “I had thought to avoid the ravages of the rumor mill,” he said quietly. “You know how those things work, Kael, don’t you? Someone says something and next thing you know, it’s believed to be true. I would protect her reputation by—”

“Protect?” Kael’thas barked the word. “If you cared about her, you would court her openly, proudly. Any man would.” He looked at Jaina, and the anger was gone, replaced by a fleeting expression of pain. Then that, too, disappeared. Jaina looked down. “I will leave you two to your…tryst. And do not fear, I will say nothing.”

With an angry hiss, he scornfully tossed the book toward Jaina. The tome, likely invaluable, landed with a thump at Jaina’s feet, and she started at the sound. Then he was gone in a swirl of violet and gold robes. Jaina let out her breath and laid her head on Arthas’s chest.

Arthas patted her back gently. “It’s all right, he’s gone now.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I should have told you.”

His chest contracted. “Told me what? Jaina—are you and he—”

“No!” she answered at once, gazing up at him. “No. But—I think he wanted to. I just—he’s a good man, and a powerful mage. And a prince. But he’s not…” Her voice trailed off.

“He’s not what?” The words came out sharper than he had intended. Kael was so many things Arthas wasn’t. Older, more sophisticated, experienced, powerful, and almost impossibly physically perfect. He felt jealousy growing inside him in a cold, hard knot. If Kael had reappeared at that moment, Arthas wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t take a swing at him.

Jaina smiled softly, the furrow in her brow uncreasing. “He’s not you.”

The icy knot inside him melted like winter retreating before the warmth of spring, and he pulled her to him and kissed her again.

Who cared what a stuffy elven prince thought anyway?

The year unfolded largely without incident. As summer gave way to a crisp fall and then winter, more complaints rose about the cost of tending to the orc camps, but both Terenas and Arthas expected such. Arthas continued to train with Uther. The older man was adamant that while training at arms was important, so was prayer and meditation. “Yes, we must be able to cut down our enemies,” he said. “But we must also be able to heal our friends and ourselves.”

Arthas thought about Invincible. His thoughts always drifted to the horse in winter, and Uther’s comment only reminded him yet again of what he regarded as the one failure in his entire life. If only he had begun training earlier, the great white stallion would still be alive. He had never revealed to anyone exactly what had happened on that snowy day. They all believed it was an accident. And it was, Arthas told himself. He had not deliberately intended to harm Invincible. He loved the horse; he would sooner have harmed himself. And if he’d begun paladin training earlier, like Varian had done with sword fighting, he’d have been able to save Invincible. He swore that would not happen again. He would do whatever was necessary so that he would never be caught unawares and impotent, would never not be able to make it right.

The winter passed, as all winters must, and spring came to Tirisfal Glades again. And so did Jaina Proudmoore, arriving and looking to Arthas as beautiful, fresh, and welcome a sight as the new blossoms on the awakening trees. She had come to assist him in publicly celebrating Noblegarden, the major spring celebration in Lordaeron and Stormwind. Arthas found that staying up late the night before, sipping wine and filling eggs with candy and other treats, was not quite the boring task it would have been had Jaina not been there with him, her brow furrowed in the endearing fashion he had come to recognize as hers and hers alone, as she carefully and intently filled the eggs and set them aside.

While there was still no public announcement, Arthas and Jaina both knew their parents had spoken with one another, and there was a tacit agreement that the courtship would be permitted. So it was that more and more Arthas, beloved already by his people, was sent to represent Lordaeron at public functions rather than Uther or Terenas. With the passing of time, Uther had increasingly withdrawn into the spiritual aspect of the Light, and Terenas seemed more than content to not have to travel.

“It is exciting when you are young, to travel for days on horseback and sleep under the stars,” he told Arthas. “When you are my age, though, horseback riding is best left for recreation, and the stars one can glimpse by looking out the window are quite close enough.”

Arthas had grinned, diving with pleasure into the new responsibilities. Admiral Proudmoore and Archmage Antonidas had apparently come to the same conclusions. For more and more often, when messengers from Dalaran were sent to Capital City, Lady Jaina Proudmoore accompanied them.

“Come for the Midsummer Fire Festival,” he said suddenly. She looked up at him, holding an egg carefully in one hand, brushing a lock of golden hair from her face with the other.

“I can’t. Summer is a very intensive time for the students at Dalaran. Antonidas has already told me to expect to stay there the whole time.” Regret was in her voice.

“Then I’ll come visit you for Midsummer, and you can come for Hallow’s End,” Arthas said. She shook her head and laughed at him.

“You are persistent, Arthas Menethil. I will try.”

“No, you’ll come.” He reached across the table, littered with carefully hollowed out, brightly painted eggs and small candies, and placed his hand over hers.

She smiled, still a little shy after all this time, her cheeks turning pink.

She would come.

There were several smaller festivals leading up to Hallow’s End. One was somber, one was celebratory, and this one was a bit of both. It was believed to be a time when the barrier between the living and the dead was thin, and those who had passed on could be sensed by those still alive. Tradition had it that at the end of the harvest season, before the winds of winter began to blow, that a straw effigy would be erected right outside the palace. At sunset on the night of the ceremony, it would be lit on fire. It was an awesome sight—a giant flaming wicker man, burning bright against the encroaching night. Anyone who wished could approach the fiery effigy, toss a branch into the cracking flames, and in so doing metaphorically “burn away” anything he did not wish to carry into the quiet, deep reflection time provided by winter’s enforced inactivity.

It was a peasant ritual, sprung up from time immemorial. Arthas suspected that few nowadays truly believed that tossing a branch into a fire would really solve their problems; even fewer believed that contact with the dead was possible. He certainly didn’t. But it was a popular celebration, and it brought Jaina back to Lordaeron, and for those reasons, he was looking forward to it.

He had a little surprise for her in mind.

It was right after sunset. The crowds had begun gathering in late afternoon. Some had even brought picnics and made an event out of enjoying the last few days of late autumn among the hills of Tirisfal. There were guards stationed about, keeping an eye out for the mishaps that often happen when large numbers of people are gathered in one place, but Arthas really didn’t expect any difficulties. When he came out of the palace, clad in a tunic, breeches, and cloak of rich autumnal hues, cheers erupted. He paused and waved at the onlookers, accepting their applause, then turned and extended his hand to Jaina.

She looked a little surprised, but smiled, and the cheers now lifted her name to the darkening sky as well as his. Arthas and Jaina walked down the path to the giant wicker man and stood before it. Arthas held up a hand for silence.

“My countrymen, I join you in celebration of this most revered of nights—the night when we remember those who are no longer with us, and cast aside the things that hold us back. We burn the effigy of the wicker man as a symbol of the year that is passing, much as the farmers burn the remains of the harvested fields. The ashes nourish the soil, and this rite nourishes our souls. It is good to see so many here tonight. I am pleased to be able to offer the distinct honor of lighting the wicker man to Lady Jaina Proudmoore.”

Jaina’s eyes went wide. Arthas turned to her, grinning wickedly.

“She is the daughter of war hero Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, and promises to be a powerful mage in her own right. As magi are masters of fire, I think it only right that she light our wicker man this evening. Do you agree?”

Those assembled roared with delight, as Arthas knew they would. Arthas bowed at Jaina, then leaned in and whispered, “Give them a show—they’ll love it.”

Jaina nodded imperceptibly, then turned to the crowd and waved. Their cheering increased. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, briefly revealing her nervousness, then composed her face. She closed her eyes and lifted her hands, murmuring an incantation.

Jaina was dressed in fire hues of red, yellow, and orange. As small balls of flame began to materialize in her hands, glowing faintly at first and then with increasing brightness, she looked to Arthas like fire itself for a moment. She held the fire in her hands with ease, comfort, and mastery, and he knew that the days when she had little control over her spells were long gone. She wasn’t going to “become” a powerful mage; she obviously already was one, in fact if not in title.

And then she extended both hands. The balls of fire leaped like a bullet fired from a gun, hurtling toward the enormous straw effigy. It erupted into flame at once, and the onlookers gasped, then broke into wild applause. Arthas grinned. The wicker man never caught on fire that quickly when an ordinary brand was touched to its base.

Jaina opened her eyes at the sound and waved, smiling delightedly. Arthas leaned close and whispered, “Spectacular, Jaina.”

“You asked me to give them a show,” she shot back, grinning at him.

“Indeed I did. But that was almost too good a show. They’re going to demand that you light the wicker man every year now I’m afraid.”

She turned to look at him. “Would that be a problem?”

The light from the blazing fire danced over her, illuminating her lively features, catching the glint of a gold circlet adorning her head. Arthas caught his breath as he regarded her. She’d always been attractive to him, and he’d liked her from the moment they’d met. She’d been a friend, a confidant, an exciting flirtation. But now he couldn’t help but see her, quite literally, in a whole new light.

It took a moment for him to find his voice. “No,” he said softly. “No, it wouldn’t be a problem at all.”

They joined the throngs dancing by the fire that night, causing the guards no end of consternation as they went right down among the populace and shook hands and exchanged greetings. And then they gave the dutiful guards the slip, losing themselves in the crowd and stealing away unnoticed. Arthas led her through the back corridors to the private living quarters of the palace. Once they were almost caught by some servants taking a shortcut to the kitchens, and had to flatten themselves against the wall and stay perfectly still for several long moments.

Then they were in Arthas’s rooms. He closed the door, leaned back up against it, and swept her into his arms, kissing her deeply. But it was she, shy, studious Jaina, who broke the kiss and moved toward the bed, leading him by the hand, the orange light from the still-blazing wicker man outside dancing on their skin.

He followed, almost as in a daze, a dream, as they stood beside the bed, their hands clasped so tightly Arthas feared her fingers would snap in his grip. “Jaina,” he whispered.

“Arthas,” she said, the word a whimper, and kissed him again, her hands reaching up to clasp his face between her hands. He was dizzy with wanting her, and felt suddenly bereft as she drew back. Her breath was soft and warm on his face as she whispered, “I…are we ready for this?”

He started to answer flippantly, but he knew what she was really asking. He could not imagine being more ready to bring this girl the rest of the way into his heart. He had turned down the lovely Taretha, and she had not been the first he had said no to. Jaina, he knew, was even less experienced than he in such matters.

“I am if you are,” he whispered hoarsely, and as he bent to kiss her again, he saw the familiar furrow of worry cross her brow. I will kiss it away, he vowed, bringing her onto the bed with him. I will make everything you could ever worry about go away forever.

Later, when the wicker man had finally burned out and the only light on Jaina’s sleeping form was the cool blue-white of moonlight, Arthas still lay awake, running his fingers along the curves of her body and alternately wondering where this would all lead and feeling content to simply be in the moment.

He had not tossed in a branch to the wicker man fire, because he had nothing he wished to be rid of. Nor did he now, he thought, bending forward to kiss her. Jaina awakened with a soft sigh, reaching for him.

“No one can seem to deny you anything,” she murmured, repeating the words she had said to him the day of their first kiss, “least of all me.”

He clutched her to him then, a sudden cold shivering over him, though he had no idea why. “Don’t deny me, Jaina. Don’t ever deny me. Please.”

She looked up at him, eyes glittering in the cool moonlight. “I never would, Arthas. Never.”

The palace had never been so cheerily decorated for the Feast of Winter Veil as it was this year. Muradin, ever a good ambassador of his people, had brought the dwarven tradition to Lordaeron upon his arrival. Over the years it had increased in popularity, and this year the people seemed to truly take it to heart.

The festive tone had been established a few weeks earlier, when Jaina had delighted them so with her theatrical display of igniting the wicker man. She had been granted permission to stay through the winter if she so chose, although Dalaran was not far to one who could teleport herself. Something had changed. It was both subtle and profound. Jaina Proudmoore was starting to be treated as more than the daughter of the ruler of Kul Tiras, more than a friend.

She was starting to be treated as a member of the royal family.

Arthas first realized it when his mother took both Jaina and Calia to be fitted for the formal dresses fashion required for the Winter Veil Eve ball. Other guests had spent Winter Veil here; Lianne had never before wanted to coordinate their outfits with her own and that of her daughter.

Too, Terenas now often requested that Jaina join him and Arthas when they sat to listen to the peoples’ petitions. She sat on the king’s left, Arthas on his right. In a position nearly equal to the king’s own son.

Well, Arthas thought, he supposed that it was the logical conclusion. Wasn’t it? He recalled his words to Calia years ago: “We each have our duties, I guess. You to marry whomever Father wants, and me to marry well for the kingdom.”

Jaina would be good for the kingdom. Jaina, he thought, would be good for him, too.

So why did the thought make him feel so uneasy?

They had fresh snow for the night before Winter Veil. Arthas stood looking out of a large window at Lordamere Lake, frozen over now. The snow had begun falling at dawn, and had stopped about an hour ago. The sky was black velvet, the stars small icy diamonds against the soft darkness, and moonlight made everything look still, hushed, and magical.

A soft hand slipped into his. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jaina said quietly. Arthas nodded, not looking at her. “Plenty of ammunition.”

“What?”

“Ammunition,” Jaina repeated. “For snowball fights.”

He finally turned to her and his breath caught. He’d not been permitted to see the gowns she, Calia, and his mother would be wearing to the banquet and ball this evening, and he was stunned by her beauty. Jaina Proudmoore looked like a snow maiden. From shoes that looked to be made of ice, to a white gown tinged with the palest blue to the circlet of silver that caught the warm glow of the torchlight, she was heartbreakingly lovely. But she was no ice queen, no statue; she was warm and soft and alive, her golden hair flowing about her shoulders, her cheeks pink beneath his admiring gaze, her blue eyes bright with happiness.

“You’re like…a white candle,” he said. “All white and gold.” He reached for a lock of her hair, twirling it about his fingers.

She grinned. “Yes,” she laughed, reaching to touch his own bright locks, “the children will almost certainly be blond.”

He froze.

“Jaina—are you—”

She chuckled. “No. Not yet. But there’s no reason to think we won’t be able to have children.”

Children. Again, the word that galvanized him in shock and peculiar distress. She was talking about the children they would have. His mind galloped into the future, a future with Jaina as his wife, their children in the palace, his parents gone, himself on the throne, the weight of the crown on his head. Part of him desperately wanted that. He loved having Jaina by his side, loved holding her in his arms at night, loved the taste and smell of her, loved her laughter, pure as a bell and sweet as the scent of roses.

He loved—

What if he ruined it?

Because suddenly he knew that until this moment, it had all been child’s play. He’d thought of Jaina as a companion, just as she had been since his boyhood, except their games were now of a more adult nature. But something had suddenly shifted inside him. What if this was real? What if he really was in love with her, and she with him? What if he was a bad husband, a bad king—what if—

“I’m not ready,” he blurted.

Her brow furrowed. “Well, we do not have to have little ones right away.” She squeezed his hand in what was clearly intended to be a gesture of reassurance.

Arthas suddenly dropped her hand and took a step backward. Her frown deepened in confusion.

“Arthas? What’s wrong?”

“Jaina—we’re too young,” he said, speaking rapidly, his voice rising slightly. “I’m too young. There’s still—I can’t—I’m not ready.”

She paled. “You aren’t—I thought—”

Guilt racked him. She’d asked him this, the night they became lovers. Are you ready for this? she had whispered. I am if you are, he had replied, and he’d meant it…. He really had thought he’d meant it….

Arthas reached out and grabbed her hands, trying desperately to articulate the emotions racing through him. “I still have so much to learn. So much training to complete. And Father needs me. Uther’s got so much he needs to teach and—Jaina, we’ve always been friends. You’ve always understood me so well. Can’t you understand me now? Can’t we still be friends?”

Her bloodless lips opened but no words came out at first. Her hands were limp in his. Almost frantically he squeezed them.

Jaina, please. Please understand—even if I don’t.

“Of course, Arthas.” Her voice was a monotone. “We’ll always be friends, you and I.”

Everything, from her posture to her face to her voice, bespoke her pain and her shock. But Arthas clung instead to her words as a wave of relief, so profound it made his knees weak, swept over him. It was all going to be just fine. It might upset her now, a little, but surely she’d understand soon. They knew each other. She’d figure out that he was right, that it was too soon.

“I mean—this isn’t forever,” he said, feeling the need to explain. “Just for now. You’ve got studying to do—I’m sure I’ve been a distraction. Antonidas probably resents me.”

She said nothing.

“This is for the best. Maybe one day it’ll be different and we can try again. It’s not that I don’t—that you—”

He pulled her into his arms and hugged her. She was stiff as stone for a moment, then he felt the tension leave her and her arms went around him. They stood alone in the hall for a long time, Arthas resting his cheek against her bright gold hair, the hair that, no doubt, their children would indeed have been born with. Might still be born with.

“I don’t want to close the door,” he said quietly. “I just—”

“It’s all right, Arthas. I understand.”

He stepped back, his hands on her shoulders, peering into her eyes. “Do you?”

She laughed slightly. “Honestly? No. But it’s all right. It will be eventually, anyway. I know that.”

“Jaina, I just want to make sure this is right. For both of us.”

I don’t want to mess this up. I can’t mess this up.

She nodded. She took a deep breath and steadied herself, giving him a smile…a real, if hurting, smile. “Come, Prince Arthas. You need to escort your friend to the ball.”

Arthas somehow made it through the evening, and so did Jaina, although Terenas kept giving him strange glances. He didn’t want to tell his father, not yet. It was a strained and unhappy night, and at one point during a pause in the dancing, Arthas looked out at the blanket of white snow and the moon-silvered lake, and wondered why everything bad seemed to happen in winter.

Lieutenant General Aedelas Blackmoore didn’t look particularly happy to have this exclusive audience with King Terenas and Prince Arthas. In fact, he looked like he desperately would like to slink away unnoticed.

The years had not been kind to him, neither physically nor in the hand fate had dealt him. Arthas recalled a handsome, rather dashing military commander who, while doubtless overfond of his drink, at least seemed able to keep the ravages of it at bay. No longer. Blackmoore’s hair was streaked with gray, he had put on weight, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was, fortunately, stone-cold sober. Had he showed up to this meeting intoxicated, Terenas, a firm believer in the need for moderation in all things, would have refused to see him.

Blackmoore was here today because he had messed up. Badly. Somehow the man’s prized gladiator orc, Thrall, had escaped Durnholde in a fire. Blackmoore had tried to keep it quiet and conduct his search for the orc personally and on a small scale, but a secret as large as a massive green orc could not be contained forever. Once word had gotten out, rumors flew wildly, of course—it was a rival lord who had freed the orc, anxious to ensure winning in the rings; it was a jealous mistress, hoping to embarrass him; it was a clever band of orcs unaffected by the strange lethargy—no, no, it was Orgrim Doomhammer himself; it was dragons, infiltrating disguised as humans, who lit the place afire with only their breath.

Arthas had thought Thrall exciting to watch in combat, but he recalled that even then the thought had crossed his mind whether it was wise to train and educate an orc. When information had come that Thrall was on the loose, Terenas had summoned Blackmoore immediately for an accounting.

“It was bad enough that you thought it a good idea to train an orc to fight in gladiatorial combat,” Terenas began. “But to train him in military strategy, to teach him to read, to write…I must ask, Lieutenant General…what in the Light’s name were you thinking?”

Arthas smothered a grin as Aedelas Blackmoore seemed to physically diminish right in front of his eyes.

“You assured me that the funds and materials went directly into stepping up security, and that your pet orc was securely guarded.” Terenas continued, “And yet somehow, he is out there instead of safely inside Durnholde. How is that possible?”

Blackmoore frowned and rallied somewhat. “It is certainly unfortunate that Thrall escaped. I’m sure you understand how I must feel.”

It was a hit on Blackmoore’s part; Terenas still smarted from the fact that Doomhammer had escaped from under his very nose. But it wasn’t a particularly wise hit. Terenas frowned and continued.

“I hope this isn’t part of some disturbing trend. The money is earned from the labor of the people, Lieutenant General. It goes toward keeping them safe. Do I need to send along a representative to ensure that the funds are properly distributed?”

“No! No, no, that won’t be necessary. I will account for every penny.”

“Yes,” said Terenas with deceptive mildness, “you will.”

When Blackmoore finally left, bowing obsequiously the whole way out, Terenas turned to his son.

“What are your thoughts on the situation? You saw Thrall in action.”

Arthas nodded. “He wasn’t at all like I had imagined orcs to be. I mean…he was huge. And fought fiercely. But it was obvious he was also intelligent. And trained.”

Terenas stroked his beard, thinking. “There are pockets of renegade orcs out there. Some who might not have this lassitude that the ones we’ve imprisoned have demonstrated. If Thrall were to find them and teach them what he knows, it could be a very bad thing for us.”

Arthas sat up straighter. This could be what he’d been looking for. “I’ve been training hard with Uther.” And he had been. Unable to properly explain to others—and to himself—why he had ended the relationship with Jaina, he’d thrown himself into his training. He’d fought for hours a day until his body ached, attempting to sufficiently exhaust himself so that he could get her face out of his mind.

It had been what he wanted, hadn’t it? She’d taken it well. So why was it he who lay awake at night, missing her warmth and presence with a pain that bordered on agony? He had even embraced hitherto despised hours spent in still, silent meditation in an effort to distract himself. Maybe if he focused on fighting, on learning how to accept and channel and direct the Light, he could get the hell over her. Over the girl he himself had broken up with.

“We could go looking for such orcs. Find them before Thrall does.”

Terenas nodded. “Uther has informed me of your dedication, and he’s been impressed with your progress.” He reached a decision. “Very well then. Go tell Uther and start preparing. It’s time for your first taste of real battle.”

Arthas was hard put not to let out a whoop of excitement. He refrained, even in his delight picking up on the pained, worried look on his father’s face. Maybe, just maybe, killing rebellious greenskins would erase the memory of Jaina’s stricken expression when he’d ended their relationship.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do you proud.”

Despite the regret in his father’s blue-green eyes, so like Arthas’s own, Terenas smiled. “That, my son, is the least of my worries.”

Jaina raced through the gardens, late to her meeting with Archmage Antonidas. She’d done it again—lost track of time with her nose buried in a book. Her master was always chiding her about that, but she couldn’t help it. Her slippered feet took her down between the rows of goldenbark apple trees, the fruit hanging heavy and ripe. She felt a brief brush of sorrow as she remembered a conversation held here only a few short years ago—when Arthas had appeared behind her, slipping his hands over her eyes, and whispering, “Guess who?”

Arthas. She missed him still. She supposed she always would. The breakup had been unexpected and hurtful, and the timing couldn’t have been worse—she still cringed as she thought about having to continue through the formal Winter Veil ball as if nothing had gone wrong—but as the initial shock had faded she had grown to understand his reasoning. They were both young yet and, as he had pointed out at the time, they had responsibilities and training to complete. She’d promised him they’d always stay friends, and she had meant it, then and afterward. In order for her to keep that promise, she had had to heal. And so she had done.

Certainly much had happened in those few short years to keep her busy and focused elsewhere. Five years ago, a powerful wizard named Kel’Thuzad had drawn the ire of the Kirin Tor with his dabbling in unnatural necromantic magic. He had left, suddenly and mysteriously, after being severely reprimanded and told in no uncertain terms to cease his experiments immediately. The mystery had been one of many things that had helped distract her over the last three years.

Outside the gates of the magical city, things had happened too, though information was scattered, rumor-ridden, and chaotic. As best Jaina had been able to determine, the escaped orc Thrall, now calling himself the warchief of the new Horde, had begun attacking the internment camps and freeing the captive orcs. Later, Durnholde itself had been razed by this self-styled warchief, crumbling into ruins as Thrall called forth what Jaina had learned was the ancient shamanistic magic of his people. Blackmoore had fallen too, but by all accounts, he would not be mourned overlong. While troubled at what this new Horde might eventually mean for her people, Jaina could not find it in herself to mourn the loss of the camps. Not after what she had seen of them.

Voices reached her ears, one raised in anger. So unusual was that in this place that Jaina slid to an abrupt halt.

“As I told Terenas, your people are prisoners in their own lands. I repeat to you now—humanity is in peril. The tides of darkness have come again, and the whole world is poised upon the brink of war!” The voice was male, resonant and strong, and Jaina did not recognize it.

“Ah, now I know who you must be. You are the rambling prophet who was the subject of King Terenas’s last letter. And I am no more interested in your babble than he is.” The other speaker was Antonidas, as calm as the stranger was insistent. Jaina knew that she should discreetly withdraw before she was noticed, but the same curiosity that had driven the girl she had been to go along with Arthas to spy on the orc encampments now prompted her to cloak herself in invisibility and learn more. She moved closer as quietly as possible. She could see them both now; the first speaker, whom Antonidas had sarcastically referred to as a “prophet,” clad in a cloak and hood decorated with black feathers, and her master on horseback. “I thought Terenas was quite plain in his opinion of your predictions.”

“You must be wiser than the king! The end is near!”

“I told you before, I’m not interested in this nonsense.” Clipped, calm, dismissive. Jaina knew that tone of voice.

The prophet was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “Then I’ve wasted my time here.”

Before Jaina’s startled gaze, the stranger’s shape blurred. It compressed and shifted, and where an instant before a man in a cowled robe had stood, now there was only a large black bird. With a caw of frustration, it sprang skyward, flapping its wings, and was gone.

His eyes still on the interloper, now a vanishing dot in the blue sky, Antonidas said, “You can show yourself now, Jaina.”

Heat washed over Jaina’s face. She murmured a counterspell and edged forward. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping, Master, but—”

“It’s your inquisitive nature that I’ve come to rely on, child,” Antonidas said, chuckling a little. “That crazed fool’s convinced that the world’s about to end. That’s taking the whole ‘plague’ thing a bit far, in my opinion.”

“Plague?” Jaina started.

Antonidas sighed and dismounted, sending his steed off with an amiable slap to the rear. The horse pranced a little, then trotted obediently off to the stables, where a groom would attend to him. The archmage beckoned to his apprentice, who stepped forward and took the outstretched, gnarled hand. “You will recall I sent some messengers to Capital City a short time ago.”

“I thought that was regarding the orc situtation.” Antonidas murmured an incantation, and a few moments later they appeared in his private quarters. Jaina loved this place; loved the untidiness, the smell of parchment and leather and ink, and the old chairs into which one could curl and lose oneself in knowledge. He gestured for her to sit and with the crook of a finger had a pitcher pour nectar for them.

“Well, that was on the agenda, yes, but my representatives thought that a more dire threat was at our doorstep.”

“More dire than the Horde re-forming?” Jaina extended her hand, and the crystal goblet, filled with golden liquid, floated into her palm.

“Orcs, potentially, could be reasoned with. Disease cannot. There are reports of a plague spreading in the northlands. Something I think the Kirin Tor should be paying close attention to.”

Jaina peered at him, her brow furrowing as she sipped. Generally disease fell under the auspices of the priests, not magi. Unless—

“You think it’s magical in nature somehow?”

He nodded his bald head. “It’s a strong possibility. And that’s why, Jaina Proudmoore, I am asking you to travel to these lands and investigate the matter.”

Jaina nearly choked on her nectar. “Me?”

He smiled gently. “You. You have learned nearly everything I have to teach. It’s time you utilized those skills outside of the safety of these towers.” His eyes twinkled again. “And I have arranged for a special envoy to assist you.”

Arthas lounged against a tree, turning his face up to the weak sunlight and closing his eyes. He knew he radiated calmness and confidence; he had to. His men were worrying enough for all of them. He couldn’t let them see that he, too, was anxious. After all this time…how would they get along? Maybe it hadn’t been so smart a decision after all. But all the reports had been glowing, and he knew she had the most level of heads. It would work out all right. It had to.

One of his captains, Falric, whom Arthas had known for years, stomped about, going a little way down one of the four paths at this crossroads, then returning to venture a short distance down another. His breath was visible in the chill, and his irritation was obviously growing by the minute. “Prince Arthas,” he finally ventured, “we’ve been waiting here for hours. Are you sure this friend of yours is coming?”

Arthas’s lips curved in a slight smile as he answered without opening his eyes. The men had not been told, for reasons of security. “I’m sure.” He was. He thought about all the other times he had patiently waited for her. “Jaina usually runs a little late.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than he heard a distant bellow and the barely decipherable words, “Me SMASH!”

Like a panther dozing in the sun only to waken instantly alert, Arthas sprang to attention, hammer in hand. He started down the road, to see a slender, feminine shape racing toward him as she crested the hill into his vision. Behind her loomed what he knew to be an elemental—a swirling blob of aqua-colored water, with a crude head and limbs.

And behind that…were two ogres.

“By the Light!” cried Falric, starting to race forward. Arthas would have beaten him to the girl except for the fact that right at that moment, he caught sight of Jaina Proudmoore’s face.

She was grinning.

“Stay your blade, Captain,” Arthas said, feeling his own lips curve into a grin. “She can take care of herself.”

And so indeed the lady could—and efficiently. At that precise moment Jaina wheeled and began to summon fire. Arthas realized that if he was going to feel sorry for anyone in this conflict, it was the poor baffled ogres, bellowing in pain as fire licked their pudgy, pale forms and staring in shock at the tiny human female responsible for such astonishing agony. One of them had the sense to run, but the other, seemingly unable to believe it, kept coming. Jaina sent a blast of rumbling orange flame at it again, and it cried out and collapsed, burning to death quickly, the rank scent of charred flesh filling Arthas’s nostrils.

Jaina watched the second one flee, dusted her hands off, and nodded. She hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Gentlemen, meet Miss Jaina Proudmoore,” Arthas drawled, walking up to his childhood friend and former lover. “Special agent to the Kirin Tor, and one of the most talented sorceresses in the land. Looks like you haven’t lost your touch.”

She turned to face him, smiling up at him. There was no awkwardness in this moment, only happiness. She was glad to see him, and he her, the pleasure swelling inside him. “It’s good to see you again.”

So much in so few, almost formal words. But she understood him. She had always understood him. Her eyes were sparkling as she replied, “You, too. It’s been a while since a prince escorted me anywhere.”

“Yes,” he said, a slight hint of ruefulness coloring his tone. “It has.” Now it was awkward, and Jaina looked down and he cleared his throat. “Well, I guess we should get under way.”

She nodded, dismissing the elemental with a wave of her hand. “I don’t need this fellow with such stalwart soldiers,” she said, gifting Falric and his men with one of her best smiles. “So, Your Highness, what do you know about this plague we’re to investigate?”

“Not much,” Arthas was forced to confess as they fell into step. “Father just now sent me to work with you. Uther’s been fighting with me against the orcs most recently. But I’d guess that if the Dalaran wizards want to find out more about it, it’s got something to do with magic.”

She nodded, still smiling, although her brow was starting to furrow in that familiar fashion. Arthas felt an odd pang as he noticed it. “Quite right. Although exactly how, I’m not sure. That’s why Master Antonidas sent me to observe and report back. We should check out the villages along the King’s road. Talk to the inhabitants—see if they know anything useful. Hopefully they have not been infected and this is nothing more serious than a localized outbreak of some sort.”

He, who knew her so well, could hear the doubt in her voice. He understood it. If Antonidas really believed it wasn’t serious, he wouldn’t have sent his prized apprentice to check it out—nor would King Terenas have sent his son.

He changed the topic. “I wonder if it had anything to do with the orcs.” At her raised eyebrow, he continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the escapes from the internment camps.”

She nodded. “Yes. I sometimes wonder if that little family we saw was among those who escaped.”

He shifted uneasily. “Well, if they are, they might still be worshipping demons.”

Her eyes widened. “What? I thought that was stamped out long ago—that the orcs were no longer using demonic energy.”

Arthas shrugged. “Father sent Uther and me to help defend Strahnbrad. By the time I got there, orcs had already begun kidnapping villagers. We hunted them down at their encampment, but three men were…sacrificed.”

Jaina was listening now as she always did, not just with her ears but with her whole body, concentrating on every word with the focus that he remembered. Light, but she was beautiful.

“The orcs said they were offering them up to their demons. Called it a paltry sacrifice—clearly they wanted more.”

“And Antonidas seems to think this plague is magical in nature,” Jaina murmured. “I wonder if there is a connection. It’s disheartening to hear that they have reverted so. Perhaps it is only a single clan.”

“Perhaps—or perhaps not.” He recalled how Thrall had fought in the ring, recalled how even those ragtag orcs had put up a surprisingly good fight. “We can’t afford to take risks. If we’re attacked, my men have standing orders to kill them all.” Briefly, he thought about the fury that raged in him when the orc leader had sent back his response to Uther’s offer of surrender. The two men who had been sent in to parley had been killed, their horses returning riderless in a wordless, brutal message.

“Let’s get in there and destroy the beasts!” he’d cried, the weapon he had been given at his initiation into the Silver Hand glowing brightly. He would have charged in immediately had not Uther placed a restraining hand on his arm.

“Remember, Arthas,” he had said, his voice calm, “we are paladins. Vengeance cannot be a part of what we must do. If we allow our passions to turn to bloodlust, then we will become as vile as the orcs.”

The words penetrated the anger—somewhat. Arthas had clenched his teeth, watching as the frightened horses, their riders butchered, were led away. Uther’s words were wisdom, but Arthas felt he had failed the men who’d been on those horses. Failed them, just as he’d failed Invincible, and now they were as dead as that great beast. He took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, Uther.”

His calmness had been rewarded—Uther had charged him with leading the attack. If only he’d been in time to save those three poor men.

A gentle hand on his arm called him back to the present, and without thinking, out of old habit, he covered Jaina’s hand with his own. She started to pull away, then gave him a slightly strained smile.

“It’s so very, very good to see you again,” he said impulsively.

Her smile softened, became genuine, and she squeezed his arm. “You, too, Your Highness. By the way, thanks for holding your man back when we met.” The smile became a full-fledged grin. “I told you once before, I’m not a fragile little figurine.”

He chuckled. “Indeed not, my lady. You will fight alongside us in these battles.”

She sighed. “I pray there is no fighting—only investigating. But I will do what I must. I always have.”

Jaina withdrew her hand. Arthas hid his disappointment. “As we all do, my lady.”

“Oh stop that. I’m Jaina.”

“And I’m Arthas. Nice to meet you.”

She shoved him then, and they laughed, and suddenly a barrier was gone between them. His heart warmed as he looked down at her, at his side once again. They were facing real danger together for the first time. He was conflicted. He wanted to keep her safe, but he also wanted to let her shine in her abilities. Had he done the right thing? Was it too late? He’d told her that he wasn’t ready, and that had been true—he hadn’t been ready for a lot of things then. But much had changed since that Winter Veil. And some things hadn’t changed at all. All kinds of emotions tore at him, and he pushed them all away except one: simple pleasure in her presence.

They made camp that night before dusk, in a small clearing close to the road. There was no moonlight, only the stars, glittering in the ebony darkness above them. Jaina jokingly lit the fire, conjured some delicious breads and beverages, then declared, “I’m done.” The men laughed and obligingly prepared the rest of the meal, skewering rabbits over spits and unpacking fruits. Wine was passed around, and the feeling was almost more of a group of comrades enjoying the evening than a battle-ready unit investigating a deadly plague.

Afterward, Jaina sat a little bit away from the group. Her eyes were on the skies, a smile playing on her lips. Arthas joined her and offered her more wine. She held out her goblet while he poured and then took a sip.

“This is a lovely vintage, Your H—Arthas,” she said.

“One of the benefits of being a prince,” he replied. He stretched out his long legs and lay down next to her, one arm behind his head as a pillow, the other arm holding the goblet steady on his chest as he looked up at the stars. “What do you think we’re going to find?”

“I don’t know. I was sent as an investigator. I do wonder if it doesn’t have something to do with demons, though, given your encounter with the orcs.”

He nodded in the darkness, then, realizing she couldn’t see him, said, “I agree. I wonder if we shouldn’t have brought a priest along with us now.”

She turned to smile at him. “You’re a paladin, Arthas. The Light works through you. Plus, you swing a weapon better than any priest I’ve seen.”

He grinned at that. The moment hung between them, and just as he started to reach out a hand to her, she sighed and got to her feet, finishing the wine.

“It’s late. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well, Arthas.”

But he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in his bedroll, staring up at the sky, the night sounds contriving to catch his attention even when he did start to drift off. He could take it no more. He’d always been impulsive, and he knew it, but dammit—

He threw back the blankets and sat up. The camp was still. They were in no danger here, so there was no one set to watch. Quietly, Arthas rose and went to the area where he knew Jaina was sleeping. He knelt down beside her and brushed her hair back from her face.

“Jaina,” he whispered, “wake up.”

As she had done that night so long ago, she again awoke in silence and unafraid, blinking up at him curiously.

He grinned. “You up for an adventure?”

She tilted her head, smiling, the memories obviously coming back to her as well. “What sort of an adventure?” she countered.

“Trust me.”

“I always have, Arthas.”

They spoke in whispers, their breath visible in the cold night air. She was propped up on one elbow now, and he imitated her, reaching with his other hand to touch her face. She did not pull back.

“Jaina…I think there was a reason we were brought together again.”

There it was, the little furrow in her brow. “Of course. Your father sent you because—”

“No, no. More than that. We’re working together as a team now. We—we work well that way.”

She was very still. He continued to caress the smooth curve of her cheek.

“I—when this is all over—maybe we can…talk. You know.”

“About what ended at Winter Veil?”

“No. Not about endings. About beginnings. Because things have felt very incomplete to me without you. You know me like no one else does, Jaina, and I’ve missed that.”

She was silent for a long moment, then sighed softly and leaned her cheek into his hand. He shivered as she turned her head and kissed his palm.

“I have never been able to deny you, Arthas,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “And yes. It feels incomplete to me, too. I’ve missed you very much.”

Relief washed over him and he leaned forward, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her passionately. They would get to the bottom of this mystery together, solve it, and come home heroes. Then they’d get married—maybe in the spring. He wanted to see her showered with rose petals. And later there’d be those fair-haired children Jaina had talked about.

They were not intimate, not here, surrounded as they were by Arthas’s men, but he did join her under the blankets until the steely dawn called him reluctantly back to his own bed. Before he left, though, he caught her in his arms and held her tightly.

He did sleep a little then, secure in the knowledge that nothing—no plague, no demon, no mystery could stand up to the joined efforts of Prince Arthas Menethil, paladin of the Light, and Lady Jaina Proudmoore, mage. They’d see it through together—whatever it took.

Jaina raced through the gardens, late to her meeting with Archmage Antonidas. She’d done it again—lost track of time with her nose buried in a book. Her master was always chiding her about that, but she couldn’t help it. Her slippered feet took her down between the rows of goldenbark apple trees, the fruit hanging heavy and ripe. She felt a brief brush of sorrow as she remembered a conversation held here only a few short years ago—when Arthas had appeared behind her, slipping his hands over her eyes, and whispering, “Guess who?”

Arthas. She missed him still. She supposed she always would. The breakup had been unexpected and hurtful, and the timing couldn’t have been worse—she still cringed as she thought about having to continue through the formal Winter Veil ball as if nothing had gone wrong—but as the initial shock had faded she had grown to understand his reasoning. They were both young yet and, as he had pointed out at the time, they had responsibilities and training to complete. She’d promised him they’d always stay friends, and she had meant it, then and afterward. In order for her to keep that promise, she had had to heal. And so she had done.

Certainly much had happened in those few short years to keep her busy and focused elsewhere. Five years ago, a powerful wizard named Kel’Thuzad had drawn the ire of the Kirin Tor with his dabbling in unnatural necromantic magic. He had left, suddenly and mysteriously, after being severely reprimanded and told in no uncertain terms to cease his experiments immediately. The mystery had been one of many things that had helped distract her over the last three years.

Outside the gates of the magical city, things had happened too, though information was scattered, rumor-ridden, and chaotic. As best Jaina had been able to determine, the escaped orc Thrall, now calling himself the warchief of the new Horde, had begun attacking the internment camps and freeing the captive orcs. Later, Durnholde itself had been razed by this self-styled warchief, crumbling into ruins as Thrall called forth what Jaina had learned was the ancient shamanistic magic of his people. Blackmoore had fallen too, but by all accounts, he would not be mourned overlong. While troubled at what this new Horde might eventually mean for her people, Jaina could not find it in herself to mourn the loss of the camps. Not after what she had seen of them.

Voices reached her ears, one raised in anger. So unusual was that in this place that Jaina slid to an abrupt halt.

“As I told Terenas, your people are prisoners in their own lands. I repeat to you now—humanity is in peril. The tides of darkness have come again, and the whole world is poised upon the brink of war!” The voice was male, resonant and strong, and Jaina did not recognize it.

“Ah, now I know who you must be. You are the rambling prophet who was the subject of King Terenas’s last letter. And I am no more interested in your babble than he is.” The other speaker was Antonidas, as calm as the stranger was insistent. Jaina knew that she should discreetly withdraw before she was noticed, but the same curiosity that had driven the girl she had been to go along with Arthas to spy on the orc encampments now prompted her to cloak herself in invisibility and learn more. She moved closer as quietly as possible. She could see them both now; the first speaker, whom Antonidas had sarcastically referred to as a “prophet,” clad in a cloak and hood decorated with black feathers, and her master on horseback. “I thought Terenas was quite plain in his opinion of your predictions.”

“You must be wiser than the king! The end is near!”

“I told you before, I’m not interested in this nonsense.” Clipped, calm, dismissive. Jaina knew that tone of voice.

The prophet was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “Then I’ve wasted my time here.”

Before Jaina’s startled gaze, the stranger’s shape blurred. It compressed and shifted, and where an instant before a man in a cowled robe had stood, now there was only a large black bird. With a caw of frustration, it sprang skyward, flapping its wings, and was gone.

His eyes still on the interloper, now a vanishing dot in the blue sky, Antonidas said, “You can show yourself now, Jaina.”

Heat washed over Jaina’s face. She murmured a counterspell and edged forward. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping, Master, but—”

“It’s your inquisitive nature that I’ve come to rely on, child,” Antonidas said, chuckling a little. “That crazed fool’s convinced that the world’s about to end. That’s taking the whole ‘plague’ thing a bit far, in my opinion.”

“Plague?” Jaina started.

Antonidas sighed and dismounted, sending his steed off with an amiable slap to the rear. The horse pranced a little, then trotted obediently off to the stables, where a groom would attend to him. The archmage beckoned to his apprentice, who stepped forward and took the outstretched, gnarled hand. “You will recall I sent some messengers to Capital City a short time ago.”

“I thought that was regarding the orc situtation.” Antonidas murmured an incantation, and a few moments later they appeared in his private quarters. Jaina loved this place; loved the untidiness, the smell of parchment and leather and ink, and the old chairs into which one could curl and lose oneself in knowledge. He gestured for her to sit and with the crook of a finger had a pitcher pour nectar for them.

“Well, that was on the agenda, yes, but my representatives thought that a more dire threat was at our doorstep.”

“More dire than the Horde re-forming?” Jaina extended her hand, and the crystal goblet, filled with golden liquid, floated into her palm.

“Orcs, potentially, could be reasoned with. Disease cannot. There are reports of a plague spreading in the northlands. Something I think the Kirin Tor should be paying close attention to.”

Jaina peered at him, her brow furrowing as she sipped. Generally disease fell under the auspices of the priests, not magi. Unless—

“You think it’s magical in nature somehow?”

He nodded his bald head. “It’s a strong possibility. And that’s why, Jaina Proudmoore, I am asking you to travel to these lands and investigate the matter.”

Jaina nearly choked on her nectar. “Me?”

He smiled gently. “You. You have learned nearly everything I have to teach. It’s time you utilized those skills outside of the safety of these towers.” His eyes twinkled again. “And I have arranged for a special envoy to assist you.”

Arthas lounged against a tree, turning his face up to the weak sunlight and closing his eyes. He knew he radiated calmness and confidence; he had to. His men were worrying enough for all of them. He couldn’t let them see that he, too, was anxious. After all this time…how would they get along? Maybe it hadn’t been so smart a decision after all. But all the reports had been glowing, and he knew she had the most level of heads. It would work out all right. It had to.

One of his captains, Falric, whom Arthas had known for years, stomped about, going a little way down one of the four paths at this crossroads, then returning to venture a short distance down another. His breath was visible in the chill, and his irritation was obviously growing by the minute. “Prince Arthas,” he finally ventured, “we’ve been waiting here for hours. Are you sure this friend of yours is coming?”

Arthas’s lips curved in a slight smile as he answered without opening his eyes. The men had not been told, for reasons of security. “I’m sure.” He was. He thought about all the other times he had patiently waited for her. “Jaina usually runs a little late.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than he heard a distant bellow and the barely decipherable words, “Me SMASH!”

Like a panther dozing in the sun only to waken instantly alert, Arthas sprang to attention, hammer in hand. He started down the road, to see a slender, feminine shape racing toward him as she crested the hill into his vision. Behind her loomed what he knew to be an elemental—a swirling blob of aqua-colored water, with a crude head and limbs.

And behind that…were two ogres.

“By the Light!” cried Falric, starting to race forward. Arthas would have beaten him to the girl except for the fact that right at that moment, he caught sight of Jaina Proudmoore’s face.

She was grinning.

“Stay your blade, Captain,” Arthas said, feeling his own lips curve into a grin. “She can take care of herself.”

And so indeed the lady could—and efficiently. At that precise moment Jaina wheeled and began to summon fire. Arthas realized that if he was going to feel sorry for anyone in this conflict, it was the poor baffled ogres, bellowing in pain as fire licked their pudgy, pale forms and staring in shock at the tiny human female responsible for such astonishing agony. One of them had the sense to run, but the other, seemingly unable to believe it, kept coming. Jaina sent a blast of rumbling orange flame at it again, and it cried out and collapsed, burning to death quickly, the rank scent of charred flesh filling Arthas’s nostrils.

Jaina watched the second one flee, dusted her hands off, and nodded. She hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Gentlemen, meet Miss Jaina Proudmoore,” Arthas drawled, walking up to his childhood friend and former lover. “Special agent to the Kirin Tor, and one of the most talented sorceresses in the land. Looks like you haven’t lost your touch.”

She turned to face him, smiling up at him. There was no awkwardness in this moment, only happiness. She was glad to see him, and he her, the pleasure swelling inside him. “It’s good to see you again.”

So much in so few, almost formal words. But she understood him. She had always understood him. Her eyes were sparkling as she replied, “You, too. It’s been a while since a prince escorted me anywhere.”

“Yes,” he said, a slight hint of ruefulness coloring his tone. “It has.” Now it was awkward, and Jaina looked down and he cleared his throat. “Well, I guess we should get under way.”

She nodded, dismissing the elemental with a wave of her hand. “I don’t need this fellow with such stalwart soldiers,” she said, gifting Falric and his men with one of her best smiles. “So, Your Highness, what do you know about this plague we’re to investigate?”

“Not much,” Arthas was forced to confess as they fell into step. “Father just now sent me to work with you. Uther’s been fighting with me against the orcs most recently. But I’d guess that if the Dalaran wizards want to find out more about it, it’s got something to do with magic.”

She nodded, still smiling, although her brow was starting to furrow in that familiar fashion. Arthas felt an odd pang as he noticed it. “Quite right. Although exactly how, I’m not sure. That’s why Master Antonidas sent me to observe and report back. We should check out the villages along the King’s road. Talk to the inhabitants—see if they know anything useful. Hopefully they have not been infected and this is nothing more serious than a localized outbreak of some sort.”

He, who knew her so well, could hear the doubt in her voice. He understood it. If Antonidas really believed it wasn’t serious, he wouldn’t have sent his prized apprentice to check it out—nor would King Terenas have sent his son.

He changed the topic. “I wonder if it had anything to do with the orcs.” At her raised eyebrow, he continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the escapes from the internment camps.”

She nodded. “Yes. I sometimes wonder if that little family we saw was among those who escaped.”

He shifted uneasily. “Well, if they are, they might still be worshipping demons.”

Her eyes widened. “What? I thought that was stamped out long ago—that the orcs were no longer using demonic energy.”

Arthas shrugged. “Father sent Uther and me to help defend Strahnbrad. By the time I got there, orcs had already begun kidnapping villagers. We hunted them down at their encampment, but three men were…sacrificed.”

Jaina was listening now as she always did, not just with her ears but with her whole body, concentrating on every word with the focus that he remembered. Light, but she was beautiful.

“The orcs said they were offering them up to their demons. Called it a paltry sacrifice—clearly they wanted more.”

“And Antonidas seems to think this plague is magical in nature,” Jaina murmured. “I wonder if there is a connection. It’s disheartening to hear that they have reverted so. Perhaps it is only a single clan.”

“Perhaps—or perhaps not.” He recalled how Thrall had fought in the ring, recalled how even those ragtag orcs had put up a surprisingly good fight. “We can’t afford to take risks. If we’re attacked, my men have standing orders to kill them all.” Briefly, he thought about the fury that raged in him when the orc leader had sent back his response to Uther’s offer of surrender. The two men who had been sent in to parley had been killed, their horses returning riderless in a wordless, brutal message.

“Let’s get in there and destroy the beasts!” he’d cried, the weapon he had been given at his initiation into the Silver Hand glowing brightly. He would have charged in immediately had not Uther placed a restraining hand on his arm.

“Remember, Arthas,” he had said, his voice calm, “we are paladins. Vengeance cannot be a part of what we must do. If we allow our passions to turn to bloodlust, then we will become as vile as the orcs.”

The words penetrated the anger—somewhat. Arthas had clenched his teeth, watching as the frightened horses, their riders butchered, were led away. Uther’s words were wisdom, but Arthas felt he had failed the men who’d been on those horses. Failed them, just as he’d failed Invincible, and now they were as dead as that great beast. He took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, Uther.”

His calmness had been rewarded—Uther had charged him with leading the attack. If only he’d been in time to save those three poor men.

A gentle hand on his arm called him back to the present, and without thinking, out of old habit, he covered Jaina’s hand with his own. She started to pull away, then gave him a slightly strained smile.

“It’s so very, very good to see you again,” he said impulsively.

Her smile softened, became genuine, and she squeezed his arm. “You, too, Your Highness. By the way, thanks for holding your man back when we met.” The smile became a full-fledged grin. “I told you once before, I’m not a fragile little figurine.”

He chuckled. “Indeed not, my lady. You will fight alongside us in these battles.”

She sighed. “I pray there is no fighting—only investigating. But I will do what I must. I always have.”

Jaina withdrew her hand. Arthas hid his disappointment. “As we all do, my lady.”

“Oh stop that. I’m Jaina.”

“And I’m Arthas. Nice to meet you.”

She shoved him then, and they laughed, and suddenly a barrier was gone between them. His heart warmed as he looked down at her, at his side once again. They were facing real danger together for the first time. He was conflicted. He wanted to keep her safe, but he also wanted to let her shine in her abilities. Had he done the right thing? Was it too late? He’d told her that he wasn’t ready, and that had been true—he hadn’t been ready for a lot of things then. But much had changed since that Winter Veil. And some things hadn’t changed at all. All kinds of emotions tore at him, and he pushed them all away except one: simple pleasure in her presence.

They made camp that night before dusk, in a small clearing close to the road. There was no moonlight, only the stars, glittering in the ebony darkness above them. Jaina jokingly lit the fire, conjured some delicious breads and beverages, then declared, “I’m done.” The men laughed and obligingly prepared the rest of the meal, skewering rabbits over spits and unpacking fruits. Wine was passed around, and the feeling was almost more of a group of comrades enjoying the evening than a battle-ready unit investigating a deadly plague.

Afterward, Jaina sat a little bit away from the group. Her eyes were on the skies, a smile playing on her lips. Arthas joined her and offered her more wine. She held out her goblet while he poured and then took a sip.

“This is a lovely vintage, Your H—Arthas,” she said.

“One of the benefits of being a prince,” he replied. He stretched out his long legs and lay down next to her, one arm behind his head as a pillow, the other arm holding the goblet steady on his chest as he looked up at the stars. “What do you think we’re going to find?”

“I don’t know. I was sent as an investigator. I do wonder if it doesn’t have something to do with demons, though, given your encounter with the orcs.”

He nodded in the darkness, then, realizing she couldn’t see him, said, “I agree. I wonder if we shouldn’t have brought a priest along with us now.”

She turned to smile at him. “You’re a paladin, Arthas. The Light works through you. Plus, you swing a weapon better than any priest I’ve seen.”

He grinned at that. The moment hung between them, and just as he started to reach out a hand to her, she sighed and got to her feet, finishing the wine.

“It’s late. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well, Arthas.”

But he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in his bedroll, staring up at the sky, the night sounds contriving to catch his attention even when he did start to drift off. He could take it no more. He’d always been impulsive, and he knew it, but dammit—

He threw back the blankets and sat up. The camp was still. They were in no danger here, so there was no one set to watch. Quietly, Arthas rose and went to the area where he knew Jaina was sleeping. He knelt down beside her and brushed her hair back from her face.

“Jaina,” he whispered, “wake up.”

As she had done that night so long ago, she again awoke in silence and unafraid, blinking up at him curiously.

He grinned. “You up for an adventure?”

She tilted her head, smiling, the memories obviously coming back to her as well. “What sort of an adventure?” she countered.

“Trust me.”

“I always have, Arthas.”

They spoke in whispers, their breath visible in the cold night air. She was propped up on one elbow now, and he imitated her, reaching with his other hand to touch her face. She did not pull back.

“Jaina…I think there was a reason we were brought together again.”

There it was, the little furrow in her brow. “Of course. Your father sent you because—”

“No, no. More than that. We’re working together as a team now. We—we work well that way.”

She was very still. He continued to caress the smooth curve of her cheek.

“I—when this is all over—maybe we can…talk. You know.”

“About what ended at Winter Veil?”

“No. Not about endings. About beginnings. Because things have felt very incomplete to me without you. You know me like no one else does, Jaina, and I’ve missed that.”

She was silent for a long moment, then sighed softly and leaned her cheek into his hand. He shivered as she turned her head and kissed his palm.

“I have never been able to deny you, Arthas,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “And yes. It feels incomplete to me, too. I’ve missed you very much.”

Relief washed over him and he leaned forward, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her passionately. They would get to the bottom of this mystery together, solve it, and come home heroes. Then they’d get married—maybe in the spring. He wanted to see her showered with rose petals. And later there’d be those fair-haired children Jaina had talked about.

They were not intimate, not here, surrounded as they were by Arthas’s men, but he did join her under the blankets until the steely dawn called him reluctantly back to his own bed. Before he left, though, he caught her in his arms and held her tightly.

He did sleep a little then, secure in the knowledge that nothing—no plague, no demon, no mystery could stand up to the joined efforts of Prince Arthas Menethil, paladin of the Light, and Lady Jaina Proudmoore, mage. They’d see it through together—whatever it took.

Arthas was pushing his men too hard and he knew it, but time was a precious resource and could not be squandered. He felt a tug of guilt when he saw Jaina chewing on some dried meat as they rode. The Light refreshed him when he worked with it; magi drew on different energies, and he knew that Jaina was exhausted after the superb effort she had put forth earlier. But there was no time for rest, not when thousands of lives depended upon their actions.

He’d been sent on a mission to find out what was going on and stop it. The mystery was starting to unravel, but he was beginning to doubt his ability to halt the plague. Nothing was as easy as it had looked at first. Still, Arthas would not give up. Could not give up. He had vowed to do whatever it took to stop this, to save his people, and so he would.

They saw and smelled the smoke rising in the sky before they reached the gates of Andorhal. Arthas hoped that if the town had burned, then maybe at least the grain had been destroyed as well, and then felt a twinge of guilt at the callousness of the thought. He buried it in action, kicking his mount hard and riding through the gates, expecting to be assaulted at any moment.

Around them buildings burned, black smoke stinging his eyes and making him cough. Through tear-filled eyes he peered around. There were no villagers, but neither were there any undead. What was—

“I believe you have come looking for me, children,” came a smooth voice. The wind shifted, driving the smoke in a different direction, and Arthas could now see a black-robed figure standing only a short distance away. Arthas tensed. This, then, was the leader. The necromancer was smiling now, his face dimly glimpsed in the shadow of his hood, a smirk that Arthas burned to cut off his face. Beside him were two of his pet undead. “You’ve found me. I am Kel’Thuzad.”

Jaina gasped in recognition at the name, and her hand flew to her mouth. Arthas spared her a quick glance, then returned his full attention to the speaker. He gripped his hammer tightly.

“I’ve come to deliver a warning,” said the necromancer. “Leave well enough alone. Your curiosity will be the death of you.”

“I thought this magic taint felt familiar!” It was Jaina, her voice shaking with outrage. “You were disgraced, Kel’Thuzad, precisely for your experiments along this line! We told you it would lead to disaster. And you have learned nothing!”

“Lady Jaina Proudmoore,” Kel’Thuzad purred. “Looks like Antonidas’s little apprentice is all grown up. And quite the contrary my dear…as you can see, I have learned a great deal.”

“I saw the rats you experimented with!” Jaina cried. “That was bad enough—but now you—”

“Have furthered my research and perfected it,” Kel’Thuzad answered.

“Are you responsible for this plague, necromancer?” Arthas shouted. “Is this cult your doing?”

Kel’Thuzad turned to him, his eyes glittering in the shadow of his cowl. “I ordered the Cult of the Damned to distribute the plagued grain. But the sole credit is not mine.”

Before Arthas could speak, Jaina had burst out, “What do you mean?”

“I serve the dreadlord Mal’Ganis. He commands the Scourge that will cleanse this land and establish a paradise of eternal darkness!”

A chill swept over Arthas despite the heat of the surrounding fires at the tone of the man’s voice. He did not know what a “dreadlord” was, but the meaning of “Scourge” was clear. “And what exactly is this Scourge meant to cleanse?”

The thin-lipped mouth beneath the white mustache again curled in a cruel smile. “Why, the living, of course. His plan is already in motion. Seek him out at Stratholme if you need further proof.”

Arthas had had enough of teasing hints and taunts. He growled, gripped the haft of his hammer, and charged forward. “For the Light!” he cried.

Kel’Thuzad had not moved. He stood his ground, then, at the last minute, the air around him twisted and puckered, and he was gone. The two creatures who had stood silently at his sides now clamped their arms on Arthas, trying to wrestle him down to the earth, their fetid stench vying with the smell of smoke to choke him. He twisted free, landing a strong, clean blow to the head of one of them. Its skull shattered like a fragile piece of blown glass, brains spattering the earth as it collapsed. The second was as easily dealt with.

“The granary!” he cried, running to his horse and leaping atop it. “Come on!”

The others mounted up and they charged down the main path through the burning village. The granaries loomed up ahead of them. They were untouched by the fire that seemed to be racing through the rest of Andorhal.

Arthas drew his horse up sharply and leaped off it, running as fast as he could toward the buildings. He pulled open the door, hoping desperately to see crates piled high. Grief and rage swept through him as the only thing to meet his gaze were empty chambers—empty save for small, scattered bits of grain and the corpses of rats on the floor. He stared, sick, for a moment, then raced to the next one, and the next, yanking the doors open even though he knew exactly what he would find.

They were all empty. And had been for some time, if the layers of dust on the floor and the spiderwebs in the corners were any indication.

“The shipments have already been sent out,” he said brokenly as Jaina stepped up beside him. “We’re too late!” He slammed his gauntleted fist into the wooden door and Jaina jumped. “Dammit!”

“Arthas, we did the best we—”

He whirled on her furiously. “I’m going to find him. I’m going to find that undead-loving bastard and rip him limb from limb for this! Let him get someone to sew him back together.”

He stormed out, shaking. He’d failed. He’d had the man right there and he’d failed. The grain had been sent out, and Light alone knew how many people would die because of that.

Because of him.

No. He was not going to let that happen. He would protect his people. He would die to protect them. Arthas clenched his fists.

“North,” he said to the men who trailed behind him, unaccustomed to seeing their generally good-natured prince in the grip of such fury. “That’s the next place he’ll go. Let’s exterminate him like the vermin he is.”

He rode like a man possessed, galloping north, almost absently slaughtering the shambling wrecks of human beings who attempted to stop him. He was no longer moved by the horror of it all; his mind’s eye was filled with the vision of the man manipulating it and the disgusting cult that perpetrated it. The dead would rest soon enough; Arthas had to ensure that no more would be made.

At one point there was a huge cluster of the undead. Rotting heads lifted as one, turning toward Arthas and his men, and they moved toward him. Arthas cried out, “For the Light!”, kicked his steed, and charged in among them, swinging his hammer and crying out incoherently, venting his anger and frustration on these, the perfect targets. At one point, there was a lull, and he was able to look around.

Safe and secure away from the field of battle, overseeing everything while risking nothing, stood a tall figure in a fluttering black cloak. As if waiting for them.

Kel’Thuzad.

“There!” he cried. “He’s there!”

Jaina and his men followed him, Jaina blasting clear passage with fireball after fireball, and his men hacking the undead that did not fall in the first round of attacks. Arthas felt righteous fury singing in his veins as he drew closer and closer to the necromancer. His hammer rose and fell, seemingly effortlessly, and he didn’t even see those he struck down. His eyes were fixed on the man—if you could even call such a monster that—responsible for everything in the first place. Cut off the head, and the beast would die.

Then Arthas was there. A bellow of raw fury exploded from him and he swung, sweeping his brilliantly glowing hammer parallel to the ground, striking Kel’Thuzad at the knees and sending him flying. Others pressed in, swords slicing and hacking, the men venting their grief and outrage on the source, the cause, of the entire disaster.

For all his power and magic, it seemed as though Kel’Thuzad could indeed die like any other man. Both legs were shattered by Arthas’s sweeping blow and lay at odd angles. His robes were wet with blood, shiny black against a matte black, and red trickled from his mouth. He propped himself up on his arms and tried to speak, spitting out blood and teeth. He tried again.

“Naïve…fool,” he managed, swallowing. “My death will make little difference in the long run…for now…the scourging of this land…begins.”

His elbows buckled and, eyes closing, he fell.

The body began to rot immediately. Decomposition that should have taken days happened in mere seconds, the flesh paling, bloating, bursting open. The men gasped and started back, covering their noses and mouths. Some of them turned and vomited from the stench. Arthas stared, horrified and enraptured at the same time, unable to look away. Fluids gushed from the corpse, the flesh taking on a creamy consistency and turning black. The unnatural decomposition slowed and Arthas turned away, gasping for fresh air.

Jaina was deathly pale with dark circles around her wide, shocked eyes. Arthas went to her and turned her away from the disgusting image. “What happened to him?” he asked quietly.

Jaina swallowed, trying to calm herself. Again, she seemed to find strength in her detachment. “It is believed that, ah, if necromancers are not perfectly precise in their magical workings that, um…if they are killed they are subject to…” Her voice trailed off and suddenly she was a young woman, looking sickened and shocked. “That.”

“Come on,” Arthas said gently. “Let’s get to Hearthglen. They need to be warned—if we’re not too late already.”

They left the body where it had fallen, not granting it another glance. Arthas said a silent prayer to the Light that they were not too late. He did not know what he would do if he failed again.

Jaina was exhausted. She knew that Arthas wanted to make the best time possible, and she shared his concern. Lives were at stake. So when he asked her if she could go through the night without stopping, she nodded.

They had been riding hard for four hours when she found herself half off her mount. She was so bone-weary she’d fallen unconscious for a few seconds. Fear shot through her and she grabbed onto the horse’s mane wildly, pulling herself back up into the saddle and yanking on the reins so the horse would stop.

She sat there, the reins clutched in her hands, trembling, for several minutes before Arthas realized she’d fallen behind. Dimly she heard him calling a halt. She looked up at him mutely as he cantered up to her.

“Jaina, what’s wrong?”

“I…I’m sorry Arthas. I know you want to make good time and so do I, but—I was so tired I almost fell off. Could we stop, for just a little while?”

She saw the concern for her and frustration at the situation warring on his face, even in the dim light. “How long do you think you’ll need?”

A couple of days, she wanted to say, but instead she said, “Just long enough to eat something and rest for a bit.”

He nodded, reaching up to her and helping her off the horse. He bore her to the side of the road, where he set her down gently. Jaina fished in her pack for some cheese with hands that trembled. She expected him to head off and talk to the men, but instead he sat down beside her. Impatience radiated from him like heat from a fire.

She took a bite of cheese and looked up at him as she chewed, analyzing his profile in the starlight. One of the things she most loved about Arthas was how accessible, how human and emotional, he was to her. But now, while he was certainly in the grip of powerful emotions, he felt distant, as if he was a hundred miles away.

Impulsively she reached a hand to touch his face. He started at her touch, as if he had forgotten she was there, then smiled thinly at her. “Done?” he asked.

Jaina thought about the single bite she had eaten. “No,” she said, “but…Arthas, I’m worried about you. I don’t like what this is doing to you.”

“Doing to me?” he snapped. “What about what it’s doing to the villagers? They’re dying and then getting turned into corpses, Jaina. I have to stop it, I have to!”

“Of course we do, and I’ll do everything I can to help; you know that. But…I’ve never seen you hate anything like this.”

He laughed, a short harsh bark. “You want me to love necromancers?”

She frowned. “Arthas, don’t twist my words like that. You’re a paladin. A servant of the Light. You’re a healer as much as a warrior, but all I see in you is this desire to wipe out the enemy.”

“You’re starting to sound like Uther.”

Jaina didn’t reply. She was so weary, it was difficult to compose her thoughts. She took another bite of cheese, focusing on getting the badly needed nourishment into her body. For some reason it was hard for her to swallow.

“Jaina…I just want innocent people to stop dying. That’s all. And…I admit, I’m upset that I can’t seem to make that happen. But once this is over, you’ll see. Everything will be fine again. I promise.”

He smiled down at her, and for a moment she saw the old Arthas in his handsome face. She smiled back in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion.

“Are you done now?”

Two bites. Jaina put the rest of the cheese away. “Yes, I’m done. Let’s keep going.”

The sky was turning from black to the ashy gray of dawn when they first heard the gunfire. Arthas’s heart sank. He spurred his horse as they wound their way north up the long road that cut through the deceptively pleasant hills. Just outside the gates of Hearthglen, they saw several men and dwarves armed with rifles—all trained on them. Wafted to him on the light breeze, mixed in with the smell of gunpowder, was the incongruously pleasant, slightly sweet scent of baking bread.

“Hold your fire!” Arthas cried as his troops galloped up. He drew rein so hard his mount reared in startlement. “I am Prince Arthas! What’s going on? Why are you so armed?”

They lowered their rifles, clearly surprised to see their prince standing right in front of them. “Sir, you won’t believe what’s been going on.”

“Try me,” Arthas said.

Arthas was not surprised to hear the initial words—that the dead had risen and were attacking. What did surprise him was the term “vast army.” He glanced at Jaina. She looked utterly exhausted. The little break they had taken last night obviously hadn’t been sufficient to restore her.

“Sir,” cried one of the scouts, rushing in, “the army—it’s heading this way!”

“Dammit,” Arthas muttered. This small group of men and dwarves could handle a skirmish well enough, but not a whole damned army of the things. He made a decision. “Jaina, I’ll stay here to protect the village. Go as quickly as you can and tell Lord Uther what’s happened.”

“But—”

“Go, Jaina! Every second counts!”

She nodded. Light bless her and that level head of hers. He spared her a smile of gratitude before she stepped through the portal she created and disappeared.

“Sir,” said Falric, and something in the tone of his voice made Arthas turn. “You’d…better take a look at this.”

Arthas followed the man’s gaze and his heart sank. Empty crates…bearing the mark of Andorhal…

Hoping against hope that he was wrong, Arthas asked in a voice that shook slightly, “What did those crates contain?”

One of the Hearthglen men looked at him, puzzled. “Just a grain shipment from Andorhal. There’s no need to worry, milord. It’s already been distributed among the villagers. We’ve had plenty of bread.”

That was the smell—not the typical smell of baking bread, but slightly off, slightly too sweet—and then Arthas understood. He staggered, just a little, as the enormity of the situation, the true scope of its horror, burst over him. The grain had been distributed…and suddenly there was a vast army of the undead….

“Oh, no,” he whispered. They stared at him and he tried again to speak, his voice still shaking. But this time, not with horror, but with fury.

The plague was never meant to simply kill his people. No, no, it was much darker, much more twisted than that. It was meant to turn them into—

Even as the thought formed, the man who had answered Arthas’s question about the crate bent over double. Several others followed suit. A strange green glow limned their bodies, pulsing and growing stronger. They clutched their stomachs and fell to the earth, blood erupting from their mouths, saturating their shirts. One of them stretched out a hand to him, imploring for healing. Instead, Arthas, repulsed, recoiled in horror, staring as the man writhed in pain and died in a matter of seconds.

What had he done? The man had begged for healing, but Arthas had not even lifted a hand. But could this even be healed, Arthas wondered as he stared at the corpse. Could the Light even—

“Merciful Light!” Falric cried. “The bread—”

Arthas started at the shout, coming out of his guilty trance. Bread—the staff of life—wholesome and nourishing—had now become worse than lethal. Arthas opened his mouth to cry out, to warn his men, but his tongue was like clay in his mouth.

The plague embedded into the grain acted even before the shocked prince could find words.

The dead man’s eyes opened. He lurched upright into a seated position.

And that was how Kel’Thuzad had created an undead army in so astonishingly short a time.

Insane laughter echoed in his ears—Kel’Thuzad, laughing maniacally, triumphant even in death. Arthas wondered if he was going mad from all he had been forced to bear witness to. The undead clambered to their feet, and their movement galvanized him to action and liberated his tongue.

“Defend yourselves!” Arthas cried, swinging his hammer before the man had a chance to rise. Others were swifter, though, getting to dead feet, turning the weapons that in life they would have used to protect Arthas upon him. The only advantage he had was that the undead were not graceful with their weapons, and most of the shots they fired went wide. Arthas’s men, meanwhile, attacked with hard eyes and grim faces, bashing skulls, decapitating, smashing what had been allies just a few moments earlier into submission.

“Prince Arthas, the undead forces have arrived!”

Arthas whirled, his armor spattered with gore, and his eyes widened slightly.

So many. There were so many of them, skeletons who had been long dead, fresh corpses recently turned, more of the pale, maggoty abominations thundering down on them. He could sense the panic. They had fought handfuls, but not this—not an army of the walking dead.

Arthas thrust his hammer into the air. It flared to glowing life. “Hold your ground!” he cried, his voice no longer weak and shaking or harsh and angry. “We are the chosen of the Light! We shall not fall!”

The Light bathing his determined features, he charged.

Jaina was more exhausted than she had admitted even to herself. Drained after the days of fighting with little or no rest, she collapsed after finishing the teleportation spell. She thought she blacked out for a moment, because the next thing she knew her master was bending over her, lifting her off the floor.

“Jaina—child, what is it?”

“Uther,” Jaina managed. “Arthas—Hearthglen—” She reached up and clutched Antonidas’s robes. “Necromancers—Kel’Thuzad—raising the dead to fight—”

Antonidas’s eyes widened. Jaina gulped and continued. “Arthas and his men are fighting in Hearthglen alone. He needs reinforcements immediately!”

“I think Uther is at the palace,” Antonidas said. “I’ll send several magi there right away to open portals for as many men as he needs to bring. You did well, my dear. I’m very proud of you. Now, you get some rest.”

“No!” Jaina cried. She struggled to her feet, barely able to stand, forcing the exhaustion back by sheer will alone, holding out a shaking hand to keep Antonidas back. “I have to be with him. I’ll be all right. Come on!”

Arthas had no idea how long he had been fighting. He swung his hammer almost ceaselessly, his arms shaking from the strain, his lungs burning. It was only the power of the Light, flowing through him with quiet strength and steadiness, that kept him and his men on their feet. The undead seemed to be weakened by its power, although that seemed to be their only weakness. Only a clean kill—Arthas fleetingly wondered if you could call it a “kill” if they were already dead—stopped them in their tracks.

They just kept coming. Wave after wave of them. His subjects—his people—turned into these things. He lifted his weary arms for another blow when over the din of battle came a voice Arthas knew:

“For Lordaeron! For the king!”

The men rallied at Uther the Lightbringer’s impassioned shout, renewing their attacks. Uther had come with a solid core of knights, fresh and battle-hardened. They did not shirk from the undead—Jaina, who despite her bone-weariness had also portaled in with Uther and the knights, had apparently briefed them sufficiently so that precious seconds were not wasted in stunned reaction. The undead fell more quickly now, and each wave was met with fierce and impassioned attacks from hammer, sword, and flame.

Jaina sank down, her legs giving way beneath her, as the last of the walking dead burst into flames, stumbled about, and fell, dead in truth. She reached for a waterskin and drank deeply, shaking, and fished out some dried meat to gnaw on. The fight was over—for the moment. Arthas and Uther had both removed their helms. Sweat matted their hair. She chewed on the meat and watched as Uther looked out over the sea of undead corpses and nodded his satisfaction. Arthas was staring at something, his expression stricken. Jaina followed his gaze and frowned, not understanding. Corpses were everywhere—but Arthas was looking almost as if in a daze at the bloated, fly-riddled body of not one of his soldiers, or even a man, but of a horse.

Uther walked up to his student and clapped Arthas on the shoulder.

“I’m surprised that you kept things together as long as you did, lad.” His voice was warm with pride and a smile was on his lips. “If I hadn’t arrived just then—”

Arthas whirled. “Look, I did the best I could, Uther!” Both Uther and Jaina blinked at the harsh tone of voice. He was overreacting—Uther wasn’t censuring him; he was praising him. “If I’d had a legion of knights riding at my back, I would’ve—”

Uther’s eyes narrowed. “Now is not the time to be choking on pride! From what Jaina has told me, what we faced here was only the beginning.”

Arthas’s sea-green eyes darted to Jaina. He was still smarting from the perceived insult and for the first time since Jaina had met him, she found herself shrinking a little from that piercing gaze.

“Or did you not notice that the undead ranks are bolstered every time one of our warriors falls in battle?” Uther persisted.

“Then we should strike at their leader!” Arthas snapped. “Kel’Thuzad told me who it was and where to find him. It’s—something called a dreadlord. His name is Mal’Ganis. And he’s in Stratholme. Stratholme, Uther. The very place where you were made a paladin of the Light. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Uther sighed wearily. “Of course it does, but—”

“I’ll go there and kill Mal’Ganis myself if I have to!” Arthas cried. Jaina stopped chewing and stared at him. She had never seen him like this.

“Easy, lad. Brave as you are, you can’t hope to defeat a man who commands the dead all by yourself.”

“Then feel free to tag along, Uther. I’m going, with or without you.” Before either Uther or Jaina could protest further, he’d leaped into the saddle, yanked his steed’s head around, and headed south.

Jaina got to her feet, stunned. He’d left without Uther—without his men…without her. Uther quietly stepped beside her. She shook her fair head.

“He feels personally responsible for all the deaths,” she told the older paladin quietly. “He thinks he should have been able to stop this.” She looked up at Uther. “Not even the magi of Dalaran—the ones who warned Kel’Thuzad in the first place—suspected what was going on. Arthas couldn’t possibly have known.”

“He’s feeling the weight of the crown for the first time,” Uther said quietly. “He’s never had to before. This is all part of it, my lady—part of learning how to rule wisely and well. I watched Terenas struggle with the same thing, when he was a young man. Both good men, both wanting to do the right things for their people. To keep them safe and happy.” His eyes were thoughtful as he watched Arthas fade into the distance. “But sometimes the only decision is which is the lesser evil. Sometimes there’s no way to fix everything. Arthas is learning that.”

“I think I understand but—I can’t let him just charge off by himself.”

“No, no, once I get the men ready for a long march, we’ll be on his trail. You should rest up too.”

Jaina shook her head. “No. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Lady Proudmoore, if I may,” Uther said slowly. “It might be good to let him clear his head. Follow him if you must, but give him a little time to think.”

His meaning was obvious. She didn’t like it, but she agreed with him. Arthas was distraught. He was feeling angry and impotent and wasn’t in a state to be reasoned with. And it was precisely for those reasons she couldn’t let him be really alone.

“All right,” she said. She mounted up and murmured the spell. She saw Uther grin as he suddenly realized he could no longer see her. “I’ll follow him. Come as soon as your men are ready.”

She would not follow him too closely. She was invisible, but not silent. Jaina squeezed her horse with her knees into a canter to pursue the bright, brooding prince of Lordaeron.

Arthas kicked the horse hard, angry that it was not going faster, angry that it was not Invincible, angry that he had not figured out what was going on in time to stop it. It was almost overwhelming. His father had had to deal with orcs—creatures from another world, flooding into their own, brutal and violent and bent on conquest. That seemed like child’s play to Arthas now. How would his father and the Alliance have fared against this—a plague that not only killed people, but in a sick twist that only a deranged mind would find amusing animated their corpses to fight their own friends and families? Would Terenas have done any better? One moment Arthas thought he would have—that Terenas would have figured out the puzzle in time to stop it, to save the innocent—and the next he rationalized that no one could have done so. Terenas would have been as helpless as he in the face of this horror.

So deep in thought was he that he almost didn’t see the man standing in the road, and it was with a sharp, startled yank that he pulled his mount to the side just in time.

Chagrined, worried, and furious at being made so, Arthas snapped, “Fool! What are you doing? I could have run you down!”

The man was unlike any Arthas had ever seen before, and yet he struck the youth as somewhat familiar. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore a cloak that seemed to be made entirely out of shiny black feathers. His features were shadowed by the cowl, but his eyes were bright as they peered up at Arthas. A beard streaked with gray parted, revealing a white smile.

“You would not have harmed me, and I required your attention,” he said, his voice deep and mild. “I spoke to your father, young one. He would not hear me. Now I come to you.” He bowed, and Arthas frowned. It seemed to be—mocking. “We must talk.”

Arthas snorted. Now he knew why this mysterious, dramatically clad stranger seemed so familiar. He was some kind of mystic—a self-styled prophet, Terenas had said; able to transform into a bird. He’d had the gall to come right into Terenas’s own throne room, with some kind of doomsday blather.

“I have no time for this,” Arthas growled, gathering up his horse’s reins.

“Listen to me, boy.” There was no mocking note in the stranger’s voice now. His voice cracked like a whip and despite himself Arthas listened. “This land is lost! The shadow has already fallen, and nothing you do will deter it. If you truly wish to save your people, lead them across the sea…to the west.”

Arthas almost laughed. His father had been right—this was a madman. “Flee? My place is here, and my only course is to defend my people! I will not abandon them to this hideous existence. I will find the one behind this and destroy him. You’re a fool if you think otherwise.”

“A fool, am I? I suppose I am, to think the son would be wiser than the father.” The bright eyes looked troubled. “Your choice is already made. You will not be swayed by one who sees farther than you.”

“I’ve only your word that you see farther. I know what I see, and what I have seen, and that is that my people need me here!”

The prophet smiled now, sadly. “It is not only with our eyes that we see, Prince Arthas. It is with our wisdom and our hearts. I will leave you one final prediction. Just remember, the harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you’ll deliver your people into their hands.”

Arthas opened his mouth for a furious retort, but at that instant the stranger’s shape shifted. The cloak seemed to close about him like a second skin. Wings, jet black and glossy, sprouted from his body even as he shrank to the size of an ordinary raven. With a final harsh caw that sounded frustrated to Arthas, the bird that had been a man leaped into the air, wheeled once, and flew off. He watched it go, vaguely troubled. The man had seemed…so certain….

“I’m sorry for concealing myself, Arthas.” Jaina’s voice coming out of nowhere. Startled, Arthas whipped his head around, trying to find her. She materialized in front of him, looking contrite. “I just wanted to—”

“Don’t say it!”

He saw her start in surprise, saw those blue eyes widen, and instantly regretted snapping at her. But she shouldn’t have sneaked up on him like this, spied on him like this.

“He came to Antonidas, too,” she said after a moment, doggedly continuing with what she had intended to say despite his reprimand. “I—I have to say that I sensed tremendous power about him, Arthas.” She rode closer to him, peering up at him. “This plague of the undead—nothing like this has ever been seen before in the history of the world. It’s not just another battle, or another war—it’s something much bigger and darker than that. And maybe you can’t use the same tactics to win. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he can see things we can’t—maybe he does know what will happen.”

He turned away from her, grinding his teeth. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s some ally of this Mal’Ganis. Or maybe he’s just some crazy hermit. Nothing he can say will make me abandon my homeland, Jaina. I don’t care if that madman has seen the future. Let’s go.”

They rode in silence for a moment. Then Jaina said quietly, “Uther will be following. He just needed some extra time to prepare the men.”

Arthas stared straight ahead, still fuming. Jaina tried again.

“Arthas, you shouldn’t—”

“I am sick of people trying to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do!” The words burst from him, startling himself as much as Jaina. “What’s going on here is beyond horrible, Jaina. I can’t even find words to describe it. And I’m doing everything I possibly can. If you’re not going to support my decisions then maybe you don’t belong here.” He eyed her, his expression softening. “You look so tired, Jaina. Maybe…maybe you should go back.”

She shook her head, staring straight ahead, not meeting his gaze. “You need me here. I can help.”

The anger bled away from him, and he reached for her hand, closing fingers encased in metal over hers gently. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that and I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re here. I’m always glad of your company.” He bent and kissed her hand. Color came to her cheeks and she smiled at him, the furrow in her brow uncreasing.

“Dear Arthas,” she said softly. He squeezed her hand and let it go.

They rode hard the rest of the day, not speaking much, and halted to make camp as the sun was going down. Both of them were too weary to hunt for any fresh meat, so they simply took out some dried meat, apples, and bread. Arthas stared at the loaf in his hand. From the ovens of the palace, baked with grain grown locally—not from Andorhal. It was wholesome fare, nourishing and delicious, smelling yeasty and good and not sickly sweet. A simple, basic food, something that everyone, anyone, should be able to eat without fear.

His throat suddenly closed up and he placed the bread down, unable to eat a bite, and he put his head in his hands. For a moment he felt overwhelmed, as if a tidal wave of despair and helplessness washed over him. Then Jaina was there, kneeling beside him, resting her head on his shoulder while he struggled to compose himself. She said nothing; she did not need to, her simple, supportive presence was all he needed. Then with a deep sigh he turned to her and took her in his arms.

She responded, kissing him deeply, needing comfort and reassurance from him as much as he did from her. Arthas ran his hands through her silky golden hair and breathed her scent. And for a few brief hours that night, they permitted themselves to be lost in each other, pushing away thoughts of death and horror and plagued grain and prophets and choices, their world narrow and tender and comprised only of the two of them.

Still half asleep, Jaina awoke and reached out a hand for Arthas. He was not there. Blinking, she sat up. He was already awake and dressed, cooking some sort of hot cereal for them. He smiled when he saw her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Jaina tentatively returned the smile and reached for her robe, slipping it on and combing her hair with her fingers.

“There’s something I learned,” Arthas said without preamble. “Last night—I didn’t want to mention it. But you need to know.” His voice was flat and Jaina felt something inside her quail. At least he wasn’t screaming, like he had been yesterday—but somehow this was worse. He ladled up a bowl of steaming grains and brought it over to her. She spooned it automatically into her mouth as he continued to speak.

“This plague—the undead—” He took a deep breath. “We knew that the grain was plagued. We knew that it killed people. But it’s worse than that, Jaina. It doesn’t just kill them.”

The words seemed to catch in his throat. Jaina sat there for a moment, as understanding dawned. She thought she’d throw up the grains she’d just eaten. Her breath seemed to come with difficulty.

“It…turns them, somehow. It makes them into the undead…doesn’t it?” Please tell me I’m wrong, Arthas.

He didn’t. Instead he nodded his golden head. “That’s why there were so many of them so quickly. The grain reached Hearthglen a short time ago—long enough to be milled into flour and baked into bread.”

Jaina stared at him. The implications of this—she couldn’t even wrap her mind around them.

“That’s why I rushed off yesterday. I knew I couldn’t take Mal’Ganis by myself, but—Jaina, I just couldn’t sit around and—and mend armor and make camp, you know?” She nodded dumbly. She did understand, now. “And that prophet—I don’t care how powerful you think he is. I can’t just leave and let all of Lordaeron turn into this—this—Mal’Ganis, whatever, whomever he is, has got to be stopped. We’ve got to find every last crate of this plagued grain and destroy it.”

The telling of this shocking information seemed to agitate Arthas again, and he got to his feet, pacing. “Where the hell is Uther?” he said. “He had all night to ride here.”

Jaina placed aside the half-eaten cereal, got to her feet, and finished dressing. Her mind was working a thousand miles a minute, trying to comprehend the situation fully and dispassionately, trying to think of some way to combat it. Wordlessly they broke camp and headed for Stratholme.

The ashy grayness of dawn only darkened as the clouds closed off the sun. Rain began to fall, chilly and stinging. Both Arthas and Jaina flipped the hoods of their cloaks up, but that did little to keep Jaina dry, and she was shivering by the time they reached the gates of the great city. Almost as they drew rein, Jaina heard sounds behind her and turned to see Uther and his men coming up the dirt road that was now almost pure mud. By this point, Arthas had worked himself up again, and he turned to Uther with a bitter grin.

“Glad you could make it, Uther,” he snapped.

Uther was a patient man, but he lost his temper now. Arthas and Jaina were not the only ones under strain. “Watch your tone with me, boy! You may be the prince, but I’m still your superior as a paladin!”

“As if I could forget,” Arthas retorted. He moved quickly to the top of a rise, so he could look over the walls and into the city. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Signs of life, of normalcy, perhaps. Signs that they’d gotten here in time. Anything to give him hope that he could still somehow do something. “Listen, Uther, there’s something about the plague you should know. The grain—”

The wind shifted as he spoke, and the scent that reached his nostrils was not an unpleasant one. Nonetheless, Arthas felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. The smell, the strange, unique scent of bread baked with the tainted grain, unmistakable on the air damp with rain.

Light, no. Already milled, already baked, already—

The blood drained from Arthas’s face. His eyes widened, staring starkly in horrified comprehension. “We’re too late. We’re too damned late! The grain—these people—” He tried again. “These people have all been infected.”

“Arthas—” Jaina began in a low voice.

“They may look fine now, but it’s just a matter of time before they turn into the undead!”

“What?” cried Uther. “Lad, have you gone insane?”

“No,” Jaina said. “He’s right. If they’ve eaten the grain, they’re infected—and if they’re infected…they’ll turn.” She was thinking furiously. There had to be something they could do. Antonidas once told her, if a thing is magical in origin, then magic can combat it. If they just had a little time to think, if they could calm down and react from logic and not emotion, perhaps a cure could—

“This entire city must be purged.”

Arthas’s statement was blunt and brutal. Jaina blinked. Surely he hadn’t meant that.

“How can you even consider that?” Uther cried, marching up to his former student. “There’s got to be some other way. This isn’t a blighted apple crop, this is a city full of human beings!”

“Damn it, Uther! We have to do it!” Arthas shoved his face within an inch of Uther’s, and for a dreadful moment Jaina was convinced they’d draw weapons on each other.

“Arthas, no! We can’t do that!” The words left her lips before she could stop them. He whirled on her, his sea-colored eyes now stormy with anger and hurt and despair. She realized immediately that he truly thought this was the only option—the only way to save other, uncorrupted lives was to sacrifice these cursed ones, these that could no longer be salvaged. His face softened slightly as she rushed on, trying to get the words out before he could interrupt her. “Listen to me. We don’t know how many people are infected. Some of them might not have eaten any of the grain at all—others might not have eaten a lethal dose. We don’t even know what a lethal dose is yet. We know so little—we can’t just slaughter them like animals out of our own fear!”

It was the wrong thing to say, and she watched as Arthas’s face closed up. “I’m trying to protect the innocent, Jaina. That’s what I swore to do.”

“They are innocent—they’re victims! They didn’t ask for this! Arthas, there are children in there. We don’t know if it affects them. There’s too much unknown for such a—a drastic solution.”

“What of those who are infected?” he asked with a sudden, frightening quiet. “They’ll kill those children, Jaina. They’ll try to kill us…and spread out from here and keep killing. They’re going to die regardless, and when they rise, they’ll do things that in life they would never, ever have wanted to do. What would you choose, Jaina?”

She hadn’t expected that. She looked from Arthas to Uther, then back again. “I—I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He was right, and despairingly, she knew it. “Wouldn’t you rather die now than die from this plague? Die a clean death as a thinking, living human being rather than be raised as an undead to attack everyone, everything you loved in life?”

Her face crumpled. “I…that would be my personal choice, yes. But we can’t make that choice for them. Don’t you see?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t see. We need to purge this city before any of them have a chance to escape and spread the contagion. Before any of them turn. It’s a kindness and it’s the only solution to stop this plague right here, right now, dead in its tracks. And that is exactly what I intend to do.”

Tears of anguish burned in Jaina’s eyes.

“Arthas—give me a little time. Just a day or two. I can teleport back to Antonidas and we can call an emergency meeting. Maybe we can figure out some way to—”

“We don’t have a day or two!” The words exploded from Arthas. “Jaina, this affects people within hours. Maybe minutes. I—I saw it at Hearthglen. There’s no time for deliberation or discussion. We have to act. Now. Or it will be too late.” He turned to Uther, dismissing Jaina.

“As your future king, I order you to purge this city!”

“You’re not my king yet, boy! Nor would I obey that command even if you were!”

The silence that fell crackled with tension.

Arthas…beloved, best friend…please don’t do this.

“Then I must consider this an act of treason.” Arthas’s voice was cold, clipped. If he had struck her across the face, Jaina could not have been more shocked.

“Treason?” Uther spluttered. “Have you lost your mind, Arthas?”

“Have I? Lord Uther, by my right of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command and suspend your paladins from service.”

“Arthas!” Jaina yelped, her tongue freed in her shock. “You can’t just—”

He whirled on her furiously and spat, “It’s done!”

She stared at him. He turned to look at his men, who had stood by silent and wary as the argument had progressed. “Those of you who have the will to save this land, follow me! The rest of you…get out of my sight!”

Jaina felt sick and dizzy. He was really going to do this. He was going to march into Stratholme and cut down every living man, woman, and child within its walls. She swayed and clutched the reins of her horse. It lowered its head and whickered at her, blowing warm breath from its soft muzzle across her cheek. She was fiercely envious of its ignorance.

She wondered if Uther would attack his former pupil. But he was bound by an oath to serve his prince, even if he had been relieved of command. She saw the tendons on his neck stand out like cords, could almost hear him gritting his teeth. But he did not attack his liege.

Loyalty, however, did not still his tongue. “You’ve just crossed a terrible threshold, Arthas.”

Arthas looked at him a moment longer, then shrugged. He turned to Jaina, his eyes searching hers, and for a moment—just a moment—he looked like himself, earnest, young, a little scared.

“Jaina?”

The single word was so much more. It was both question and plea. Even as she stared at him, frozen like the bird before the snake, he reached out a gauntleted hand to her. She stared at it for a moment, thinking of all the times that hand had clasped hers warmly, had caressed her, had been lain on the wounded and glowed with healing light.

She could not take that hand.

“I’m sorry, Arthas. I can’t watch you do this.”

There was no mask on his face now, no merciful coldness to shutter his pain away from her. Shocked disbelief radiated from him. She couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. Gulping, her eyes filled with tears, Jaina turned away to find Uther regarding her with compassion and approval. He held out his hand to help her mount and she was grateful for his steadiness and composure. Jaina was shaking, badly, and clung to her horse as Uther mounted and, holding her horse’s reins, led them both away from the greatest horror they had yet encountered in this whole dreadful ordeal.

“Jaina?” Arthas’s voice followed her.

She closed her eyes, tears slipping from beneath closed lids. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Jaina?…Jaina!”

She had turned her back on him.

He couldn’t believe it. For a long moment he simply stared, dumbfounded, at her retreating figure. How could she abandon him like this? She knew him. She knew him better than anyone else in the world had known him, better maybe than he knew himself. She had always understood him. His mind suddenly went back to the night they had become lovers, bathed first in the orange glow of the wicker man’s fire, and later the cool blue of moonlight. He’d held her to him, pleading.

Don’t deny me, Jaina. Don’t ever deny me. Please.

I never would, Arthas. Never.

Oh yes, powerful words, whispered in a powerful moment, but now, now when it really counted, she had done exactly that—denied him and betrayed him. Dammit, she’d even agreed that if it were her, she’d want to be killed outright before the plague came and twisted her into a violation of everything good and true and natural. She’d left him, alone. If she’d stabbed him in the gut, he didn’t think he could hurt worse.

The thought came, brief and bright and sharp: Was she right?

No. No, she couldn’t be. Because if she was right, then he was about to become a mass murderer, and he knew that wasn’t who he was. He knew it.

He shook off the dazed horror, licking lips suddenly gone dry, and took a deep breath. Some of the men had departed with Uther. A lot of them. Too many, truth be told. Could he even take this city with this few?

“Sir, if I may,” Falric said, “I’m…well…I would rather be hacked into a thousand pieces than turn into one of them undead.”

There were murmurs of agreement and Arthas’s heart lifted. He grasped his hammer. “There is no pleasure in what we do here,” he said, “only grim necessity. Only the need to halt the plague, here and now, with the fewest casualties possible. Those within these walls are already dead. We know it, even if they do not, and we must kill them quickly and cleanly before the plague does it for us.” He looked at each of them in turn, these men who had not shirked their duty. “They must be slain, and their homes destroyed, lest the dwellings become shelter for those whom we are too late to save.” The men nodded their understanding, gripping their own weapons. “This is not a great and glorious battle. It is going to be ugly and painful, and I regret its necessity with my whole heart. But it is with my whole heart that I know we must do this.”

He lifted his hammer. “For the Light!” he cried, and in answer his men roared and lifted their weapons. He turned to the gate, took a deep breath, and charged in.

The ones that had risen were easy. They were the enemy; human no longer, but vile caricatures of what they had once been in life, and smashing their skulls or slicing their heads off was no more of a hardship than putting down a rabid beast. The others—

They looked up at the armed men, at their prince, in first confusion and then in terror. At first, most of them didn’t even reach for weapons; they knew the tabards, knew that the men who had come to kill them were supposed to be protecting them. They simply could not grasp why they were dying. Pain clenched Arthas’s heart at the first one he struck down—a youth, barely out of puberty, who gazed up at him with incomprehension in his brown eyes and got out the words, “My lord, why are—” before Arthas cried out, as much in anguish at what he was being forced to do as anything else, and caved the boy’s chest in with a hammer that he absently realized was no longer radiant with the Light. Perhaps the Light, too, grieved the dire necessity of its actions. A sob ripped through him and he bit it back, willed it back, and turned to the boy’s mother.

He thought it would get easier. It didn’t. It just got worse. Arthas refused to yield. The men looked to him for an example; if he wavered, they would too, and then Mal’Ganis would triumph. So he kept his helm on so they would not see his face, and himself lit the torches that burned down the buildings full of screaming people locked inside, and refused to let the horrible sights and sounds slow him.

It was a relief when some of the citizens of Stratholme began to fight back. Then the self-defense instinct kicked in. They still did not have a chance against professional soldiers and a trained paladin. But it mitigated that horrible sensation of—well, as Jaina had said, slaughtering them like farm animals.

“I’ve been waiting for you, young prince.”

The voice was deep and shivered in his mind as well as his ears, resonant and…there was no other word for it…evil. A dreadlord, Kel’Thuzad had said. A dark name for a dark being.

“I am Mal’Ganis.”

Something like joy shot through Arthas. He was vindicated. Mal’Ganis was here, he was behind the plague, and even as Arthas’s men, who also heard the voice, turned and sought the source, the doors of a house where villagers had been hiding was flung open and walking corpses hastened out, their bodies limned by a green, sickly glow.

“As you can see, your people are now mine. I will now turn this city household by household, until the flame of life has been snuffed out…forever.” Mal’Ganis laughed. The sound was unsettling, deep and raw and dark.

“I won’t allow it, Mal’Ganis!” Arthas cried. His heart swelled with the rightness of what he was doing. “Better that these people die by my hand than serve as your slaves in death!”

More laughter, and then the disturbing presence was gone as swiftly as it had come, and Arthas was busy battling for his very life as a throng of undead, three deep, charged him.

How long it took to slaughter every living—and dead—person in the city, Arthas would never be able to tell. But at last it was done. He was exhausted, shaking, nauseated by the smell of blood, smoke, and the sick, sweet scent of poisoned bread, hanging in the air even though the bakery itself was a burning building. Blood and ichor covered his once-bright armor. But he was not done. He waited for what he knew would come, and sure enough, a mere moment later, his enemy arrived, descending from the air to land on the roof of one of the few buildings still intact.

Arthas staggered. The creature was enormous. His skin was blue-gray, like animated stone. Horns curved forward and up from his bald skull, and two mighty wings like those of bats stretched out behind him like living shadows. His legs, encased in metal adorned with spikes and decorated with disturbing images of bones and skulls, curved backward and ended in hooves, and the very light of his glowing green eyes revealed sharp teeth bared in an arrogant sneer.

He stared up at the creature, rapt with horror, disbelief warring with the evidence before his eyes. He had heard tales; had seen pictures in old books, both in the library at home and in the Dalaran archives. But beholding this monstrous thing, towering over him, the sky behind him crimson and black with fire and smoke—

A dreadlord was a demon. A thing out of myth. It couldn’t be real—and yet it was here, standing before him in all its dreadful glory.

Dreadlord.

Fear threatened to overwhelm Arthas, and he knew if he let it it would cripple him. He would die at the hand of this monster—die without even a fight. And so with sheer will, he drowned out the mindless terror with another, better emotion. Hatred. Righteous fury. He thought of those who had fallen beneath his hammer, the living and the dead, the ravening ghouls and the terrified women and children who didn’t understand that he was trying to save their souls. Their faces bolstered him; they could not—would not—have died for nothing. Somehow Arthas found the courage to meet the demon stare for stare, clutching his hammer.

“We’re going to finish this right now, Mal’Ganis,” he shouted. His voice was strong and firm. “Just you and me.”

The dreadlord threw back his head and laughed. “Brave words,” he rumbled. “Unfortunately for you, it won’t end here.” Mal’Ganis grinned, black lips pulling back from sharp, pointed teeth. “Your journey has just begun, young prince.”

He swept an arm out, indicating Arthas’s men, long, sharp claws glittering in the light of the flames that still burned and consumed the great city. “Gather your forces and meet me in the arctic land of Northrend. It is there that your true destiny will unfold.”

“My true destiny?” Arthas’s voice cracked with anger and confusion. “What do you—” The words died in his throat as the air around Mal’Ganis began to shimmer and whirl in a familiar pattern.

“No!” Arthas shrieked. He surged forward, blindly, recklessly, and would have been cut down in a heartbeat had not the teleportation spell been completed. Arthas cried out incoherently, swinging his faintly glowing hammer at empty air. “I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth if I have to! Do you hear me? To the ends of the earth!”

Manic, raging, screaming, he swung his hammer wildly at nothing until sheer exhaustion alone forced him to lower it. He propped it up and leaned on it, sweating, shaking with raw sobs of frustration and anger.

To the ends of the earth.

Three days later, Lady Jaina Proudmoore walked the streets of what had once been a proud city, the glory of northern Lordaeron. Now, it was the stuff of nightmares.

The stench was almost unbearable. She lifted a handkerchief, liberally scented with peacebloom essence, to her face in a partially successful attempt to filter out the worst of it. Fires that ought to have consumed themselves, or have abated at least slightly from lack of fuel, continued to rage at their full height, telling Jaina that some dark magic was afoot. Combined with the acrid smell of smoke that stung her eyes and throat was the reek of putrefaction.

They lay as they had fallen, most of them unarmed. Tears welled in Jaina’s eyes and slipped down her cheeks as she moved as if in a trance, carefully stepping over the bloated bodies. A soft whimper of pain escaped as she saw that Arthas and his men, in their misguided mercy, had not even spared the children.

Would these bodies, lying still and stiff in death, have risen to attack her if Arthas had not slain them? Perhaps. Many of them, certainly; the grain had indeed been distributed and consumed. But every single one? She would never know, nor would he.

“Jaina—I ask you again, come with me.” His voice was intense, but it was clear his mind was a thousand leagues away. “He escaped me. I saved the city’s inhabitants from becoming his slaves, but—at the last minute he got away. He’s in Northrend. Come with me.”

Jaina closed her eyes. She did not want to remember that conversation of a day and a half ago. She did not want to remember how he looked, cold and angry and distant, fixated on killing this dreadlord—Light, a demon—at the expense of everything else.

She stumbled across a body and her eyes snapped open again to the horror that the man she had loved—still did love, despite everything, how she could still love him after this she did not know, but Light save her, she did—

“Arthas—it’s a trap. He’s a demon lord. If he was powerful enough to elude you in St-Stratholme, he will certainly defeat you in his own territory, where he is strongest. Don’t go…please…”

She had wanted to throw herself into his arms, physically keep him there beside her. He couldn’t go to Northrend. He would be going to his death. And although he had dealt out so much to others, Jaina found she could not wish for his.

“So much death,” she murmured. “I can’t believe Arthas could’ve done this.” And yet she knew he had. A whole city…

“Jaina? Jaina Proudmoore!”

Jaina started violently, snapped out of her sickened trance by the sound of the familiar voice. Uther. A strange feeling of relief swept over her as she turned in the direction of the hail. Uther had always intimidated her slightly; he was so large and powerful and…well…so deeply entrenched in the Light. She recalled with an incongruously guilty flush how, when she and Arthas were younger, they used to make fun of Uther’s piety, which to them verged on the pompous and sanctimonious, behind the knight’s back. He was a fairly easy target. But three excruciating days ago, she and Uther had both stood against Arthas.

“You swore you would never deny me, Jaina,” Arthas accused, his voice sharp as an icy knife blade. “But when I most needed your support, your understanding, you turned against me.”

“I—you—Arthas, we didn’t know enough to—”

“And now, you refuse to aid me. I’m going to Northrend, Jaina. I would have you with me. To help me stop this evil. Won’t you come?”

Jaina winced. Uther noticed, but said nothing. Clad in full plate armor despite the overwhelming heat of the unnaturally blazing fires, he strode swiftly toward her. His stature and presence was now a picture of strength and solidity rather than intimidation to her. He did not embrace her, but did grasp her arms reassuringly.

“I thought I might find you here. Where has he gone, girl? Where has Arthas taken the fleet?”

Jaina’s eyes widened. “The fleet?”

Uther grunted an affirmation. “He’s commandeered the entire Lordaeron fleet and taken off with them. Sent only the briefest message to his own father. We don’t know why they obeyed without direct orders from their commanders.”

Jaina gave him a small, sad smile. “Because he’s their prince. He’s Arthas. They love him. They didn’t know about…this.”

A flicker of pain crossed Uther’s rugged features and he nodded. “Aye,” he said softly. “He’s always been good to the men who serve him. They can tell that he genuinely cares about them, and they’ll serve him with their lives.”

Regret laced the words. They were true, insofar as they went, and once Arthas had deserved such undying devotion.

“And now you refuse to aid me….”

Uther shook her gently, bringing her back to the present. “Do you know where he might have taken them, child?”

Jaina took a deep breath. “He came to me before he left. I pleaded with him not to go. I told him it sounded like a trap—”

“Where?” Uther was relentless.

“Northrend. He’s gone to Northrend to hunt Mal’Ganis—the demon lord who is responsible for the plague. He couldn’t defeat him…here.”

“A demon lord? Damn that boy!” The outburst startled Jaina. “I’ve got to inform Terenas.”

“I tried to stop him,” Jaina repeated. “Then…and when he…” She gestured helplessly at the almost inconceivable number of dead that kept them silent company. She wondered for the thousandth time if she could have stopped it—if she had found the right words, touched Arthas the right way, if he would have been swayed. “But I failed.”

I failed you, Arthas. I failed these people—I failed myself.

Uther’s heavy, gauntleted hand dropped on her slim shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, girl.”

She laughed humorlessly. “Is it that obvious?”

“Anyone with a heart would wonder the same. I know I do.” She glanced up at him, startled at the admission.

“You do?” Jaina asked.

He nodded, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, and there was a pain in those depths that struck her to the core. “I could not fight him. He is still my prince. But I wonder…could I have stood in his path? Said something else, done something else?” Uther sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But that moment is in the past and my choices cannot be undone. You and I must both look to the future now. Jaina Proudmoore, you had nothing to do with this…slaughter. Thank you for telling me where he has gone.”

She lowered her head. “I feel like I’ve betrayed him again.”

“Jaina, you may have saved him—and all the men who are going with him in ignorance of what he’s become.”

Startled at his choice of words, she looked up sharply. “What he’s become? He’s still Arthas, Uther!”

Uther’s eyes looked haunted. “Aye, he is. But he made a dreadful choice—and one with repercussions we’ve yet to see played out. I don’t know that he can come back from this.” Uther turned and eyed the dead. “We know the dead can be raised to unlife. That demons truly exist. Now I wonder if there are such things as ghosts, too. If there are, our prince will be ten thick in them.” He bowed to her. “Come away from this place, lady.”

She shook her head. “No, not yet. I’m not ready.”

He searched her eyes, then nodded. “As you will. Light be with you, Lady Jaina Proudmoore.”

“And you, Uther the Lightbringer.” She gave him the best smile she could muster and watched as he strode off. Arthas would no doubt see this as yet another betrayal, but if it saved his life—then she could live with that.

The smell was starting to become more than even her stubborn will would permit her to handle. She paused for a last look. Part of her wondered why she had come here; the other part knew. She had come to brand these images into her brain, to understand the depth of what had happened. She must never, ever forget. Whether or not Arthas was past reaching, she didn’t know, but what happened here would need to never become a footnote in the history books.

A raven wheeled down slowly. She wanted to rush forward and shoo it away, to try to protect the poor, battered corpses, but it was only doing what its nature told it to do. It did not have a conscience to tell it that what it was doing was offensive to human sensibilities. She looked at the raven for a moment, and then her eyes widened.

It began to shift, change, grow, and in an instant, where a carrion bird had once perched stood a man. She gasped in recognition—this same prophet she had seen twice before.

“You!”

He inclined his head, and gave her an odd smile that told her without words, I recognize you, too. This was the third time she had seen him—once when he was speaking with Antonidas, and once with Arthas. She had been invisible on both occasions—and clearly, her invisibility spell had not fooled him for a moment, either time.

“The dead in this land might lie still for the time being, but don’t be fooled. Your prince will find only death in the cold north.”

His blunt words made her flinch slightly. “Arthas is only doing what he believes is right.” The words were true, and she knew it. Whatever his failings were, he had been utterly sincere in his belief that the purging of Stratholme was the only option.

The prophet’s gaze softened. “Commendable as that may be,” he said, “his passions will be his undoing. It falls to you now, young sorceress.”

“What? Me?”

“Antonidas has dismissed me. Terenas and Arthas as well. Both rulers of men and masters of magic have turned their faces from true understanding. But I think you may not.”

The aura of power around him was palpable. Jaina could almost see it, swirling about him, heady and strong. He stepped closer to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. She gazed up into his eyes, confused.

“You must lead your people west to the ancient lands of Kalimdor. Only there can you combat the shadow and save this world from the flame.”

Staring into those eyes, Jaina knew he was right. There was no control, no compelling—just a knowing, deep and certain and down to her bones.

“I—” Swallowing hard, she took one last look at the horrors wrought by the man she loved and still did love, and nodded.

“I will do as you say.”

And leave my Arthas to the destiny he has chosen. There is no other way.

“It will take time, to gather them all. To make them believe me.”

“I do not know that you have that much time left. So much of it has already been squandered.”

Jaina lifted her chin. “I cannot go without trying. If you know so much about me, then surely you must know that.”

The raven prophet seemed to relax marginally and smiled at her, squeezing her shoulder. “Do what you feel you must, but do not tarry overlong. The hourglass empties swiftly, and delay could be deadly.”

She nodded, too overcome to speak. So many to talk to—Antonidas’s chief among them. If he would listen to anyone, she thought, it would be her. She would bear witness for these dead—for the folly of not retreating to Kalimdor while the living yet walked here.

The prophet’s form dwindled and shifted, becoming once again that of the large black bird, and he flew off with a rustle of wings. And somehow as it brushed her face, the wind from those black wings did not smell of carrion, or smoke, or death. It smelled clean and fresh.

It smelled of hope.

Northrend was the name of the land, Daggercap Bay the site where the Lordaeron fleet made harbor. The water, deep and choppy with an unforgiving wind, was a cold blue-gray. Sheer cliffs were dotted with tenacious pine trees soaring upward, providing a natural defense of the small, flat area where Arthas and his men would make camp. A waterfall tumbled down, crashing in a billow of spray from a great height. It was all in all more pleasant a place than he had expected, at least for the moment; certainly not the obvious home for a demon lord.

Arthas leaped from the boat and slogged onto the shore, his eyes darting about, absorbing everything. The wind, keening like a lost child, stirred his long blond hair, caressing it with cold fingers. Beside him, one of the captains of the ships he had commandeered without consulting his father shivered and clapped his hands together, trying to warm them.

“This is a Light-forsaken land, isn’t it? You can barely even see the sun! This howling wind cuts to the bone and you’re not even shaking.”

Vaguely surprised, Arthas realized that the man was right. He felt the cold—felt it knifing into him—but he did not tremble.

“Milord, are you all right?”

“Captain, are all my forces accounted for?” Arthas didn’t bother to answer the question. It was a foolish one. Of course he wasn’t all right. He had been forced to slaughter the populace of an entire city in order to stop a worse atrocity. Jaina and Uther had both turned their backs on him. And a demon lord was awaiting his arrival.

“Nearly. There are only a few ships that—”

“Very well. Our first priority is to set up a base camp with proper defenses. There’s no telling what’s waiting for us out there in the shadows.” There, that would shut the man up and give him something to do. Arthas lent his assistance, working as hard as the men he commanded to erect basic shelter. He missed Jaina’s handiness with flames as they lit fires against the encroaching darkness and cold. Hell, he missed Jaina. But he would learn not to. She failed him when he most needed her, and he would not hold such people in his heart any longer. It needed to be strong, not soft; determined, not aching. There was no place in it for weakness, if he would defeat Mal’Ganis. There was no place in it for warmth.

The night passed without incident. Arthas stayed awake in his tent until the small hours of the morning, perusing what incomplete maps he had been able to find. When at last he fell asleep, he dreamed, and it was both joyous and nightmarish. He was again a youth, with everything in the world to look forward to, riding the glorious white horse he so loved. Again, they were one, perfectly paired, and nothing would stop them. And even as he dreamed, Arthas felt the horror descend upon him as he urged Invincible to make the fatal jump. The anguish, not in the slightest abated by the fact that this was a mere dream and he knew it as such, ripped through him yet again. And again, he drew his sword, and stabbed his devoted friend through his heart.

But this time…this time he realized that he was holding a completely different sword than the simple, basic weapon he had held at that dreadful moment. This time the sword was huge, two handed, beautifully fashioned. Runes glowed along its length. Cool blue mist wafted from it, cold as the snow in which Invincible lay. And when he withdrew the sword, Arthas did not find himself staring at a slain beast. Instead Invincible whickered and leaped to his feet, completely healed, somehow stronger than before. He seemed to glow now, his coat radiant rather than merely white, and Arthas bolted upright from where he had fallen asleep over the maps, tears in his eyes and a sob of joy on his lips. Surely, this was an omen.

The morning dawned frigid and gray, and he was up before first light, eager to begin combing the land for signs of the dreadlord. He was here; Arthas knew it.

But that first day, they found nothing more than a few pockets of undead. As the days passed, with more and more territory charted, Arthas’s spirits started to sink.

Intellectually, he realized that Northrend was a vast continent, barely explored. Mal’Ganis was a dreadlord, yes, and the clusters of undead they had found thus far would likely be a good indicator of his presence. But not the only one. He could be anywhere—or nowhere. This whole revelation that he would be in Northrend could have been nothing more than an elaborate trick to get Arthas out of his way, so that the demon could move somewhere else entirely and—

No. That way lay madness. The dreadlord was arrogant, certain he would eventually best the human prince. Arthas had to believe he was here. Had to. Of course, that could also mean that Jaina had been right. That Mal’Ganis was indeed here, and had laid a trap for him. None of these thoughts was pleasant, and the more Arthas chewed on them, the more agitated he became.

It was well into the second week of searching before Arthas found anything to offer him hope. They had marched off in a different direction, after the initial pair of scouts returned bearing news of large clusters of undead. They found the reported undead—lying in pieces on the frozen earth. Before Arthas could even form a thought, he and his men had come under fire.

“Take cover!” Arthas cried, and they dove for whatever they could find—tree, rock, even snowbanks. Almost as soon as it had started, the attack ceased and a shout rang out.

“Bloody hell! Ye’re not undead! Ye’re all alive!”

It was a voice that Arthas recognized and had never thought to encounter in this desolate land. Only one person he knew could swear so enthusiastically, and for a moment, he forgot why he was here, what he was searching for, and felt only delight and fond remembrance of a time long past.

“Muradin?” Arthas cried in shock and pleasure. “Muradin Bronzebeard, is that you?”

The stout dwarf stepped out from behind the row of weapons, peering cautiously. The scowl on his face was replaced by an enormous grin. “Arthas, lad! I never imagined that ye’d be th’ one tae come tae our rescue!”

He strode forward, his face even more hidden by the bushy beard Arthas remembered from his youth, if such a thing was possible, his eyes more lined but now twinkling with pleasure. He spread his arms, marched up to Arthas, and embraced the prince about the waist. Arthas laughed—Light, it had been so long since he had laughed—and hugged his old friend and trainer back. As they drew apart, the meaning of Muradin’s words registered on Arthas.

“Rescue? Muradin, I didn’t even know you were here. I came to—” He snapped his mouth closed on the words. He didn’t know how Muradin would react yet, and so simply smiled at the dwarf. “That can all wait,” he said instead. “Come, my old friend. We’ve got a base camp set up not too far from here. Looks like you and your men could use a hot meal.”

“If ye have ale as well, that’d be a yes from me,” Muradin grinned.

There was a celebratory air as Arthas, Muradin, his second in command Baelgun, and the other dwarves marched into camp that even managed to take a slight edge off the never-ending cold of the place. Arthas knew that dwarves were used to cold climates and were a solid, strong people, but he noted the looks of relief and gratitude that flitted across the bearded faces as they were handed bowls of steaming hot stew. It was difficult, but Arthas bit his tongue against the questions that wanted to come pouring out of him until Muradin and his men were taken care of. He then beckoned Muradin to join him a ways away from the center of the camp, near where his own personal tent was set up.

“So,” he said, as his former trainer began shoveling hot food down with the regularity and seemingly unstoppable quality of a well-built gnomish machine, “what were you doing up here anyway?”

Muradin swallowed his bite of food and reached for some ale to wash it down with. “Well, lad, this isn’t necessarily something tae be sharin’ wi’ everyone.”

Arthas nodded his understanding. Only a few of the members of the fleet he’d commandeered knew the whole story of why they were in Northrend. “I appreciate your trusting me, Muradin.”

The dwarf clapped him on the shoulder. “Ye’ve grown up right bonny, ye have, lad. If ye can find yer way tae this forsaken land, ye’ve a right tae know what me and me men are doing here. I’m looking fer a legend.” His eyes twinkled as he gulped some ale, wiped his mouth and continued. “My people have always been interested in rare items, ye ken tha’.”

“Indeed.” Arthas recalled hearing something about Muradin helping to form something called the Explorer’s League. It was based in Ironforge, and its members traveled the world to gather knowledge and search for archeological treasures. “So you’re on League business here?”

“Aye, indeed. I’ve been here many times before. Oddly compelling land, this one. Doesn’t give up its secrets easily…an’ that makes it intriguin’.” He fished in his pack and came out with a leather-bound journal that looked like it had seen better days and shoved it at Arthas with a grunt. The prince took it and began to thumb through the pages. There were hundreds of sketches of creatures, landmarks, and ruins. “There’s more here than meets the eye at first glance.”

Looking at the images, Arthas was forced to agree. “Most of the time, it’s just research,” Muradin continued. “Learnin’.”

Arthas closed the book and gave it back to Muradin. “When you saw us you were surprised—not that we were undead, but that we weren’t. How long have you been here—and what is it you’ve learned?”

Muradin scraped the last bit of stew from his bowl, wiped it clean with a hunk of bread, and ate that as well. He sighed a little. “Ah, I do miss th’ pastries yer palace baker used tae make.” He fished for his pipe. “An’ in answer tae yer question, long enough to know that something is amiss here. There’s some…force growin’. It’s bad and it’s getting badder. I talked to yer father; I think this power is nae happy with just sitting here in Northrend.”

Arthas fought back a double rush of both worry and excitement, trying to appear composed. “You think it might pose a danger to my people?”

Muradin leaned back and lit the pipe. The smell of his preferred tobacco, its familiarity comforting in this alien land, teased Arthas’s nostrils. “Aye, I do. I think it’s part o’ the creation o’ these pesky undead.”

Arthas decided it was time to share what he knew. He spoke quickly but calmly, telling Muradin about the plagued grain. About Kel’Thuzad, and the Cult of the Damned, and his own first horrifying encounter with the transformed farmers. About learning that Mal’Ganis, a dreadlord in the flesh, was the one behind the plague, and about the demon’s taunting invitation to come here to Northrend.

He mentioned Stratholme obliquely. “The plague had reached even there,” he said. “I made sure that Mal’Ganis had no more corpses to use for his own sick purposes.” That was enough; it was all true, and he was not certain that Muradin would understand the awful necessity of what Arthas had been forced to do. Jaina and Uther certainly hadn’t, and they’d actually seen what Arthas had been up against.

Muradin grunted. “Bad business, that. Perhaps this certain artifact I’m lookin’ fer can be of use to you in fighting this dreadlord. As far as rare an’ magical things go, this one’s a beaut. Information about it has only recently begun to surface, but ever since we learned about it—well, we’ve been looking long and hard. Have a few special magical items tae try an’ track it down, but no luck yet.” He lifted his eyes from Arthas and looked beyond the prince, toward the wilderness that loomed. For a moment, the twinkle in his eyes abated, replaced by a somberness that the more youthful Arthas had never seen there.

Arthas waited, burning with curiosity, but not wanting to appear the impatient child Muradin no doubt remembered him as being.

Muradin refocused, regarding Arthas intently. “We’re searching for a runeblade called Frostmourne.”

Frostmourne. Arthas felt a slight shiver in his soul at the word. An ominous name, for a weapon of legend. Runeblades were not unheard of, but they were extremely rare and terribly powerful weapons. He glanced over at his hammer, sitting propped up against a tree where he’d placed it after returning from his discovery of Muradin. It was a beautiful weapon, and he had cherished it, although recently the Light seemed to shine from it sluggishly, sometimes not at all.

But a runeblade—

A sudden certainty seized him, as if fate were whispering in his ear. Northrend was a vast place. Surely it was not coincidence that he had encountered Muradin. If he had Frostmourne—surely he could slay Mal’Ganis. End this plague. Save his people. The dwarf and he had come together for a reason. It was destiny at work.

Muradin was speaking and Arthas jerked his attention back to him. “We came here tae recover Frostmourne, but the closer we come tae doin’ so, the more undead we encounter. And I’m too old tae think that mere coincidence.”

Arthas smiled softly. So Muradin, too, did not believe in coincidence. The certainty inside his gut grew. “You think Mal’Ganis doesn’t want us to find it,” Arthas murmured.

“I wouldna think that he’d be happy tae see ye charging at him wi’ that kind o’ weapon in yer fist, that’s true enough.”

“It sounds like we can help each other, then,” Arthas said. “We’ll help you and your League find Frostmourne, and you can help us against Mal’Ganis.”

“A sound plan,” Muradin agreed, the smoke writhing up about him in fragrant blue-black plumes. “Arthas, me lad…any more o’ that ale available?”

The days passed. Muradin and Arthas compared notes. They had a double quest now—Mal’Ganis and the runeblade. Eventually they decided that the wisest course of action would be to press inward and send the fleet northward, to establish a new camp there. They found themselves fighting not only undead, but famished and vicious packs of wolves, strange beings that seemed to be part wolverine and part human, and a race of trolls that seemed as at home here in the frigid north as their cousins did in the steamy jungles of Stranglethorn. Muradin was not as surprised as the human prince to find such beings; apparently small clusters of similar so-called “ice trolls” lurked near the dwarven capital of Ironforge.

Arthas learned from Muradin that the undead had bases here; strange, ziggurat-like structures, pulsing with dark magic, that had belonged to an older and presumably extinct race, since the former residents didn’t seem to object. So not only did the walking corpses themselves need to be destroyed, their refuges needed to be as well. Yet each day seemed to bring Arthas no nearer to his goal. There were plenty of traces of Mal’Ganis’s evil, but none of the dreadlord himself.

Nor was Muradin’s quest for the enticing Frostmourne more successful. The clues, arcane and mundane both, were narrowing the search area, but thus far, the runeblade remained only a legend for all the reality it held for them.

The day when things changed, Arthas was in a foul temper. He was returning to their makeshift traveling camp, hungry and tired and cold, after yet another fruitless foray. So lost in his irritation was he that it was several seconds before comprehension dawned.

The guards were not at their posts. “What the—” He turned to look at Muradin, who immediately gripped his axe. There were no bodies, of course; if the undead had attacked while he was away, the corpses would have been raised in the cruelest example of conscription the world had ever known. But there should have been blood, signs of a struggle…but there was none.

They advanced cautiously, quietly. The camp was deserted—packed up, even, save for a handful of men. They looked up as Arthas entered and saluted him. In answer to his unvoiced question, one captain, Luc Valonforth, said, “Apologies, milord. Your father had our troops recalled at Lord Uther’s request. The expedition is cancelled.”

A muscle twitched near Arthas’s eye. “My father—recalled my troops. Because Lord Uther told him to?”

The captain looked nervous and glanced sideways at Muradin, then replied, “Aye, sir. We wanted to wait for you but the emissary was quite insistent. All the men headed northwest to meet up with the fleet. Our scout informed us that the roads, such as they are, are being held by the undead, so they’re busy clearing a path through the woods. I’m sure you’ll be able to catch up with them quickly, sir.”

“Of course,” Arthas said, and forced a smile. Inwardly he was seething. “Excuse me a moment.” He dropped a hand on Muradin’s shoulder and steered the dwarf off to an area where they could speak quietly.

“Eh, I’m sorry, lad. It’s frustrating tae have tae pick up an—”

“No.”

Muradin blinked. “Come again?”

“I’m not going back. Muradin, if my warriors abandon me, I’ll never defeat Mal’Ganis! That plague won’t ever stop!” Despite himself, his voice rose at the last word and a few curious glances were thrown his way.

“Lad, it’s yer father. The king. Ye can’t countermand an order. That’s treason.”

Arthas snorted. Perhaps it is my father who is turning traitor to his own people, he thought, but did not say.

“I stripped Uther of his rank. I dissolved the order. He’s got no right to do this. Father has been deceived.”

“Well, then, ye’ll have tae’ take it up wi’ him when ye get back. Make him see reason, if it’s all as ye say it is. But ye canna disobey.”

Arthas shot the dwarf a harsh glance. If it’s all as I say it is? What, was the damned dwarf implying that Arthas was lying to him? “You’re right about one thing. My men are loyal to what they understand as the chain of command. They’d never refuse to go home if they had direct orders.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and smiled as the idea took shape. “That’s it! We’ll simply deny them the way to get home. They won’t be disobeying—they’ll simply be unable to obey.”

Muradin’s bushy brows drew together in a frown. “What are ye saying?”

For answer, Arthas gave him a wolfish grin and told him his plan.

Muradin seemed shocked. “Isn’t that a bit much, lad?” Muradin’s tone told him that he thought it was indeed a bit much, perhaps a whole hell of a lot more than a “bit.” Arthas ignored him. Muradin hadn’t seen what he had seen; hadn’t been forced to do what he had done. He would understand, soon enough. When they finally faced Mal’Ganis. Arthas knew that he would defeat the dreadlord. He had to. He would end the plague, end the threat to his people. Then the destruction of the vessels would be nothing more than an inconvenience—comparatively minor when measured against the survival of the citizens of Lordaeron.

“I know it sounds drastic, but it has to be this way. It has to.”

A few hours later, Arthas stood on the Forgotten Shore and watched his entire fleet burn.

The answer had been simple. The men could not take the ships home—could not abandon him—if there were no ships to take. And so Arthas had burned them all.

He had cut through the woods, hiring mercenaries first to help them slaughter the undead and then to douse the wooden vessels liberally with oil and set them aflame. In this land of constant cold and feeble light, the heat coming off the fiery vessels was disconcertingly welcome. Arthas lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness.

Beside him, Muradin sighed and shook his head. He and the other dwarves, who muttered under their breaths as they watched the conflagration, were still not certain this was the right path. Arthas folded his arms, his back cold, his face and front almost scorched with the heat, solemnly watching the flaming skeleton of one of the ships crack apart with a whumph.

“Damn Uther for making me do this!” he murmured.

He would show the paladin—the former paladin. He would show Uther, and Jaina, and his father. He had not shirked his duty, no matter how awful or brutal it was. He would return triumphant, having done what needed to be done—things that the softer-hearted had cringed from doing. And because of him, because of his willingness to shoulder the burden of responsibility, his people would survive.

So loud was the sound of flames licking at the oil-drenched wood that for a moment, it drowned out the despairing cries of the men as they emerged and beheld the sight.

“Prince Arthas! Our ships!”

“What happened? How are we getting home?”

The idea had been simmering in the back of his mind for several hours now. Arthas knew his men would be aghast at discovering that they were stranded here. They had agreed to follow him, true, but Muradin had been right. They would have seen orders from his father as superseding any order he could give them. And Mal’Ganis would have won. But they would not understand how very badly they needed to stop the threat here, now—

His eyes fell on the mercenaries he had hired.

No one would miss them.

They could be bought and sold. If someone had paid them to kill him, they would have done so as readily as helping him. So many had died—good people, noble people, innocents. Their senseless deaths cried out to be avenged. And if Arthas’s men were not with him with all their hearts, he would not triumph.

Arthas could not bear it.

“Quickly, my warriors!” he cried, lifting his hammer. It did not glow with the Light; he was starting to cease expecting it to. He pointed at the mercenaries just now dragging the small boats filled with supplies ashore from the burning ships. “These murderous creatures have burned our ships and robbed you of your way home! Slay them all in the name of Lordaeron!”

And he led the charge.

Arthas recognized the sound of Muradin’s short but heavy stride even before the dwarf yanked the tent flap back and glared at him. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Muradin jerked his head toward the outside and let the flap fall. For a moment, Arthas was hurtled back in time to when he was a child accidentally flinging a training sword across the room. He frowned and rose, following Muradin to an area far away from the men.

The dwarf didn’t mince words. “Ye lied tae yer men and betrayed the mercenaries who fought for ye!” Muradin snapped, shoving his face up to Arthas’s as best he could from his much shorter height. “That’s nae the lad I trained. That’s nae the man who was inducted into th’ order of the Silver Hand. That’s nae King Terenas’s boy.”

“I am no one’s boy,” Arthas spat, shoving Muradin away. “I did what I deemed necessary.”

He half expected Muradin to strike him, but instead the anger seemed to bleed away from his old trainer. “What’s happening tae ye, Arthas?” Muradin said quietly, his voice holding a world of pain and confusion. “Is vengeance all that’s important to ye?”

“Spare me, Muradin,” Arthas growled. “You weren’t there to see what Mal’Ganis did to my homeland. What he did to innocent men, women, and children!”

“I’ve heard what ye did,” Muradin said quietly. “Some o’ yer men have been a wee bit free wi’ their tongues when ale has loosened them. I know what I think—but I also know that I canna judge ye. Ye’re right, I wasn’t there. Thank the Light, I didn’t have tae make that kind o’ decision. But even so—something’s happening. Ye—”

Mortar fire and cries of alarm interrupted him. In a heartbeat, Muradin and Arthas had their weapons out and had turned back to the encampment. The men were still scrambling for weapons. Falric was barking orders to the humans, while Baelgun was organizing the dwarves. There came the sound of engagement from outside the encampment, and Arthas could see the press of undead closing in. His hands clenched on his hammer. This had all the earmarks of a coordinated attack, rather than a random encounter.

“The Dark Lord said you would come,” came a voice that was by now familiar to Arthas. Elation filled him. Mal’Ganis was here! It had not been a wild-goose chase after all. “This is where your journey ends, boy. Trapped and freezing at the roof of the world, with only death to sing the tale of your doom.”

Muradin scratched his beard, his sharp eyes darting about. Outside the perimeter of the camp came the sounds of battle. “This looks bad,” he admitted with characteristic dwarven understatement. “We’re completely surrounded.”

Arthas stared, agonized. “We could have done it,” he whispered. “With Frostmourne…we could have done it.”

Muradin glanced away. “There…well lad, I have been having me doubts. About th’ sword. And, tae speak truly, about ye as well.”

It took a second for Arthas to realize what Muradin was saying. “You—are you telling me you’ve figured out how to find it?”

At Muradin’s nod, Arthas seized him by the arm. “Whatever your doubts, Muradin, you can’t possibly have them now. Not with Mal’Ganis right here. If you know where it is, then take me to it. Help me claim Frostmourne! You said it yourself—you didn’t think that Mal’Ganis would like to see me with Frostmourne in my fist. Mal’Ganis has more troops than we do. Without Frostmourne, we’ll fall, you know we will!”

Muradin gave him an agonized look, then closed his eyes.

“I have a bad feeling about this, lad. It’s why I’ve nae pressed on before—something about this artifact, how the information has come—it doesnae feel right. But I promised I’d see this through. Ye go gather a few men and I’ll find ye that runeblade.”

Arthas clapped his old friend on the shoulder. This was it. I’ll get that damned runeblade, and I’ll shove it through your black heart, dreadlord. I’ll make you pay.

“Close that gap over there!” Falric was shouting. “Davan, fire!” The boom of mortar fire echoed through the camp as Arthas raced toward his second in command.

“Captain Falric!”

Falric turned to him. “Sir…we’re utterly surrounded. We can hold out for a while, but eventually they’re going to wear us down. Who—what—we lose in numbers, they’ll gain.”

“I know, Captain. Muradin and I are going to go find Frostmourne.” Falric’s eyes widened slightly in both shock and hope. Arthas had shared the knowledge of the sword—and its supposed vast power—with a few of his most trusted men. “Once we have it, victory will be certain. Can you buy us the time?”

“Aye, Your Highness.” Falric grinned, but he still looked worried even as he said, “We’ll hold these undead bastards off.”

A few moments later, Muradin, armed with a map and a strange glowing object, joined Arthas and a handful of men. His mouth was etched in a frown and his eyes were unhappy, but his body was straight. Falric gave the signal, and began to create a distraction. Most of the undead suddenly turned and concentrated their efforts on him, leaving the back area of the camp open.

“Let’s go,” Arthas said grimly.

Muradin barked out directions as he alternately peered at his map and at the glowing object that seemed to pulse erratically. They moved as quickly as possible through the deep snow where he indicated, stopping only occasionally for the briefests of breaks to reassess. The sky darkened as clouds gathered. Snow began to fall, slowing them further.

Arthas began to move automatically. The snow made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. He no longer noticed or cared in which direction he went, simply moving his legs as he followed Muradin’s lead. Time seemed to have no meaning. He could have been moving for minutes or days.

His mind was consumed with thoughts of Frostmourne. Their salvation. Arthas knew it would be. But could they reach it before his men at the camp fell to the undead and their demonic master? Falric had said they could hold—for a time. How much longer? To finally know that Mal’Ganis was here—at his own base camp—and to not be able to attack was—

“There,” Muradin said, almost reverently, pointing. “It’s inside there.”

Arthas halted, blinking eyes that were narrowed to slits against the driving snow, their lashes crusted with ice. They stood before the mouth of a cavern, stark and ominous-seeming in the snow-swirled darkness of the gray day. There was some kind of illumination inside, a soft, blue-green radiance he could just barely glimpse. Bone-weary, frozen as he was, excitement shot through him. He forced his numbed mouth to form words.

“Frostmourne…and the end of Mal’Ganis. The end of the plague. Come on!”

A second wind seemed to take him and he hastened forward, forcing his legs to obey.

“Lad!” Muradin’s voice brought him up sharply. “So precious a treasure won’t be just left sitting around for anyone tae find. We must proceed wi’ a bit o’ caution.”

Arthas chafed, but Muradin had more experience in these matters. So he nodded, gripped his hammer firmly, and entered warily. The immediate relief from the wind and driving snow heartened him, and they moved deeper into the heart of the cavern. The illumination he had glimpsed from outside proved to be coming from softly glowing turquoise crystals and veins of ore, embedded in the rock walls, floors, and ceilings themselves. He had heard of such luminescent crystals and was now grateful for the light they provided. His men would be able to concentrate on holding their weapons, not torches. Once, his hammer would have glowed with enough radiance to guide them. He frowned at the thought, then pushed it down. It did not matter where light to see by came from, only that it was present.

It was then that they heard the voices. Muradin had been right—they were expected.

The voices were deep, hollow, and cold-sounding, and their words were dire as they floated to Arthas’s ears. “Turn back, mortals. Death and darkness are all that await you in this forsaken vault. You shall not pass.”

Muradin halted. “Lad,” he said, his voice soft, though in this place it seemed to echo endlessly, “perhaps we should listen.”

“Listen to what?” Arthas cried. “A pathetic last effort to turn me from my path to save my people? It’s going to take more than ominous words to do that.”

Gripping his hammer he hastened forward, rounded a corner—and stopped in his tracks, trying to take in everything at once.

They had found the owners of the icy voices. For a moment, Arthas was reminded of Jaina’s obedient water elemental, who had helped her fight off the ogres on that long-ago day before everything had taken such grim and horrific turns. The beings hovered over the cold stone floor of the cavern, made of ice and unnatural essence instead of water, wearing armor that looked as if it had grown of and from them. They had helms, but no faces; gauntlets, weapons and shields, but no arms.

Alarming though they were, Arthas gave these fearsome elemental spirits no more than a passing glance as his eye was drawn to the reason they had come here.

Frostmourne.

It was caught in a hovering, jagged chunk of ice, the runes that ran the length of its blade glowing a cool blue. Below it was a dais of some sort, standing on a large gently raised mound that was covered in a dusting of snow. A soft light, coming from somewhere high above where the cavern was open to daylight, shone down on the runeblade. The icy prison hid some details of the sword’s shape and form, exaggerated others. It was revealed and concealed at the same time, and all the more tempting, like a new lover imperfectly glimpsed through a gauzy curtain. Arthas knew the blade—it was the selfsame sword he had seen in his dream when he first arrived. The sword that had not killed Invincible, but that had brought him back healed and healthy. He’d thought it a good omen then, but now he knew it was a true sign. This was what he had come to find. This sword would change everything. Arthas stared raptly at it, his hands almost physically aching to grasp it, his fingers to wrap themselves around the hilt, his arms to feel the weapon swinging smoothly in the blow that would end Mal’Ganis, end the torment he had visited upon the people of Lordaeron, end this lust for revenge. Drawn, he stepped forward.

The uncanny elemental spirit drew its icy sword.

“Turn away, before it is too late,” it intoned.

“Still trying to protect the sword, are you?” Arthas snarled, angry and embarrassed at his reaction.

“No.” The being’s voice rumbled the word. “Trying to protect you from it.”

For a second, Arthas stared in surprise. Then he shook his head, eyes narrowing in determination. This was nothing more than a trick. He could never turn away from Frostmourne—turn away from saving his people. He would not fall for the lie. He charged and his men followed. The entities converged on them, attacking with their unnatural weapons, but Arthas focused his attention on the leader, the one assigned to guard Frostmourne. All his pent-up hope, worry, fear, and frustration, he unleashed on the strange protector. His men did likewise, turning to attack the other elemental guardians of the sword. His hammer rose and fell, rose and fell, shattering the icy armor as cries of anger were ripped from his throat. How dare this thing stand between him and Frostmourne? How dare it—

With a final agonized sound, like that of the rattle coming from a dying man’s throat, the spirit flung up what passed for hands and disappeared.

Arthas stood staring, panting, the breath coming from his chilled lips in white puffs. Then he turned to the hard-won prize. All misgivings disappeared as he again laid eyes on the sword.

“Behold, Muradin,” he breathed, aware that his voice was shaking, “our salvation, Frostmourne.”

“Hold, lad.” Muradin’s blunt words, almost an order, were like cold water doused on Arthas. He blinked, startled out of his trancelike rapture, and turned to look at the dwarf.

“What? Why?” he demanded.

Muradin was staring, eyes narrowed, at the hovering sword and the dais below it. “Something’s not right here.” He pointed a stubby finger at the runeblade. “This has been too easy. And look at it, sitting here wi’ light coming from who knows where, like a flower waiting tae be plucked.”

“Too easy?” Arthas shot him a disbelieving glance. “It’s taken you long enough to find it. And we had to fight these things to get to it.”

“Bah,” snorted Muradin. “Everything I ken about artifacts is telling me that there’s something as fishy here as the Booty Bay docks.” He sighed, his brow still furrowed. “Wait…there’s an inscription on the dais. Let me see if I can read this. It might tell us something.”

Both of them advanced, Muradin to kneel and peer at the writing, Arthas to draw closer to the beckoning sword. Arthas gave the inscription that so intrigued Muradin a cursory glance. It was not written in any language he knew, but the dwarf seemed to be able to read it, judging by how his eyes flickered across the letters.

Arthas lifted a hand and stroked the ice that separated them—smooth, slick, deathly cold—ice, yes, but there was something unusual about it. It wasn’t simply frozen water. He didn’t know how he could tell, but he could. There was something very powerful, almost unearthly about it.

Frostmourne…

“Aye, I thought I recognized this. It’s written in Kalimag—the elemental language,” Muradin continued. He frowned as he read. “It’s…a warning.”

“Warning? Warning of what?” Perhaps shattering the ice would damage the sword somehow, Arthas thought. The unnatural ice block itself, though, seemed to have been—almost cut from another, larger piece of ice. Muradin translated slowly. Arthas listened with half an ear, his eyes on the sword.

“Whosoever takes up this blade shall wield power eternal. Just as th’ blade rends flesh, so must power scar th’ spirit.” The dwarf leaped to his feet, looking more agitated than Arthas had ever seen him. “Och, I should’ve known. Th’ blade is cursed! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Arthas’s heart gave a strange wrench at Muradin’s exclamation. Leave? Leave this sword behind, hovering in its frozen prison, untouched, unused, with such vast power to offer him? “Power eternal,” the inscription had promised, along with the threat of scarring the spirit.

“My spirit is already scarred,” Arthas said. And so it was. It had been scarred by the needless death of a beloved steed, by the horror of watching the dead rise, by the betrayal of one he loved—yes, he had loved Jaina Proudmoore, he could say it now in this moment where his soul seemed to lie naked in front of the sword’s judgment. It had been scarred by being forced to slaughter hundreds, by the need to lie to his men and forever silence those who would question and disobey him. It had been scarred by so very much. Surely the marks left by the power to right a horrible wrong could not be greater than these.

“Arthas, lad,” Muradin said, his rough voice pleading. “Ye’ve enough tae deal wi’ without bringing a curse on yer head.”

“A curse?” Arthas laughed bitterly. “I would gladly bear any curse to save my homeland.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Muradin shiver. “Arthas, ye ken I’m a solid one, no given tae flights o’ fancy. But I tell ye, this is bad business, lad. Leave it be. Let it stay here, lost and forgotten. Mal’Ganis is here, well, that’s fine. Let him freeze his demonic arse here in the wilderness. Forget this business and let’s lead your men home.”

An image of the men suddenly filled Arthas’s mind. He saw them, and beside them he saw the hundreds that had already fallen to this horrible plague. Fallen only to rise, unthinking rotting hunks of flesh. What of them? What of their souls, their suffering, their sacrifice? Another image appeared—a huge piece of ice, the same ice that now encased Frostmourne. He saw now where this chunk of ice had come from. It was part of something larger, stronger—and it, with the runeblade inside it, had been somehow sent to him to avenge those who had fallen. A voice whispered in his mind: The dead demand vengeance.

What was a handful of living men compared to the torment of those who had fallen in so horrible a fashion?

“Damn the men!”

The words seemed to explode from someplace deep in his gut. “I have a duty to the dead. Nothing shall prevent me from having my revenge, old friend.” Now he tore his gaze away from the sword long enough to meet Muradin’s worried gaze, and his face softened slightly. “Not even you.”

“Arthas—I taught ye tae fight. I wanted tae help ye be a good warrior as well as a good king. But part o’ being a good warrior is picking which battles tae fight—and which weapons tae fight wi’.” He stabbed a stubby forefinger at Frostmourne. “And that’s a weapon ye’ll nae want to be putting in your arsenal.”

Arthas put both hands up against the ice that was the sword’s sheath and brought his face to within an inch of the smooth surface. As if from somewhere far away, he heard Muradin still speaking.

“Listen tae me, lad. We’ll find another way tae save yer people. Let’s leave now, go back and find that way.”

Muradin was wrong. He simply didn’t understand. Arthas had to do this. If he walked away now, he would have failed, again, and he couldn’t let that happen. He had been thwarted at every turn.

Not this time.

He believed in the Light, because he could see it and had used it, and he believed in ghosts and the walking dead, because he had fought them. But until this moment, he had scoffed at the idea of unseen powers, of spirits of places or things. But now, his heart racing in anticipation and with a yearning, a craving that seemed to gnaw at his very soul, the words came from his lips as if of their own accord, laced with his dreadful wanting.

“Now, I call out to the spirits of this place,” he said, his breath frosting in the cold, still air. Just beyond his reach, Frostmourne hung, suspended, awaiting him. “Whatever you be, good or ill or neither or both. I can feel you here. I know you are listening. I’m ready. I understand. And I tell you now—I will give anything, or pay any price, if only you will help me save my people.”

For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened. His breath frosted, faded, frosted again, and cold sweat dotted his brow. He had offered everything he had—had he been refused? Had he failed yet again?

And then with a low groan that made his breath catch, a sudden crack ran up the smooth surface of the ice. It raced its way upward, zigzagging and spreading, until Arthas could barely glimpse the sword it held within its heart. Then he was stumbling backward, clutching his ears at the sudden loud cracking noise that filled the chamber.

The icy casket encasing the sword exploded. Shards flew across the chamber, swords themselves, sharp and jagged. They shattered against the unyielding stone floor and walls, but even as Arthas dropped to his knees, his arms flying up automatically to cover his head, he heard a cry suddenly cut off.

“Muradin!”

The impact of the ice shard had knocked the dwarf back several feet. Now he lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, a spear of ice impaling his midsection, the blood sluggishly flowing around it. His eyes were closed and he was limp. Arthas scrambled to his feet and hastened over to his old friend and trainer, tugging off his gauntlet. He slipped an arm around the limp form, placing his hand on the wound, staring at it, willing the Light to come and limn his hands with healing energy. Guilt racked him.

So this was the dreadful price. Not his own life, but that of a friend. Someone who had cared for him, taught him, supported him. He bowed his head, tears stinging his eyes, and prayed.

It’s my folly. My price. Please—

And then, like a familiar caress from a loved friend, he felt it. The Light raced through him, comforting and warm, and he bit back a sob as he saw the glow again begin to embrace his hand. He had fallen so far, but it wasn’t too late. The Light had not abandoned him. All he needed to do was drink it in, open his heart to it. Muradin would not die. He could heal him, and together they—

Something stirred at the back of his neck. No, no, not the back of his neck…the back of his mind. He looked up quickly—

And stared in wonder.

It had flung itself free to imbed itself in front of him, its blue-white runes enveloping it in a cold and glorious light. His own Light faded from his hands as he rose to his feet, almost hypnotized. Frostmourne was waiting for him, a lover needing the touch of the desired one to waken to full glory.

The whispering in the back of his mind continued. This was the path. It was foolish to trust in the Light. It had failed him, repeatedly. It had not been there to save Invincible, had not been enough to stop the inexorable march of this plague that was on its way to wiping out the population of his kingdom. The power, the strength of Frostmourne—that was the only thing that could stand against the might of a dreadlord.

Muradin was a casualty of this awful war. But hopefully, his sacrifice would be the last. Arthas got to his feet and took unsteady steps toward the radiant weapon, his hand, still wet with the blood of his friend, outstretched and trembling. It closed on the shaft and his fingers curled around it, fitting it perfectly, as if the one was made for the other.

Cold shot through him, shivering up his arms, spreading over his body and into his heart. It was painful for a moment and he knew a hint of alarm, and then suddenly it was all right. It was all all right; Frostmourne was his and he was its, and its voice was speaking, whispering, caressing inside his mind as if it had always been there.

With a cry of joy, he lifted the weapon, gazing at it in wonder and fierce pride. He would make things right—he, Arthas Menethil, and the glorious Frostmourne that was now as much a part of him as his mind or his heart or his breath, and he listened intently to the secrets it revealed.

Arthas and his men ran toward the encampment to discover that the battle had not abated in his absence. The numbers of his men had dwindled, but there were no corpses. He did not expect to see any—those who fell rose as adversaries, under the command of the dreadlord.

Falric, his armor spattered with gore, cried out to him. “Prince Arthas! We’ve done what we could and—Where is Muradin? We can’t hold out any longer!”

“Muradin is dead,” Arthas said. The cold but comforting essence of the sword seemed to abate a little, and pain swelled in his heart. Muradin had paid the price—but it was worth it, if it would fell Mal’Ganis. The dwarf would have agreed, had he known everything, understood as Arthas understood. Muradin’s men looked stricken even as they continued to fire round after round into the waves of undead that continued to pound against them. “His death was not in vain. Take heart, Captain. The enemy will not stand long against the might of Frostmourne!”

As they watched, disbelief washing over their faces, Arthas charged into the fray.

He had thought he fought well with his blessed hammer, now lying discarded and forgotten in the icy vault where Frostmourne had once been imprisoned, but it was nothing to the damage he dealt now. Frostmourne felt more like an extension of himself rather than a weapon. He quickly found a rhythm and began to slice the undead down as if they were so many stalks of grain falling before the harvesting scythe. How balanced and perfect a weapon it was in his hands. One arcing blow severed the head from the shoulders of a ghoul. He swept Frostmourne around, scattering the bones of a skelton. Another rhythmic stroke downed a third foe. They fell all around him, the rotting bodies beginning to pile up, as he cut a path through them. At one point, looking for his next enemy, he caught sight of Falric staring at him. There was awe on the familiar face, but also shock and—horror? Only at the carnage he was wreaking, surely. Frostmourne was all but singing in his hands.

The wind picked up and the snow began to fall, thick and fast. Frostmourne seemed to approve, for the increased snowfall did not seem to hamper Arthas in the slightest. Again and again the blade found its mark, and more and more undead things fell. At last, the minions had been dealt with. It was time for their master.

“Mal’Ganis, you coward!” Arthas cried, even his voice sounding different in his own ears now, as it carried easily over the howling wind. “Come show yourself! You taunted me into coming here, now stand and face me!”

And then the demon lord was there, bigger than Arthas remembered, smirking down at the prince. He straightened to his full imposing height, his wing beating the air, his tail lashing. The undead warriors at his command stilled as he casually flicked a finger.

Arthas was prepared for the dreadlord’s frightening appearance this time. It did not rattle him. Staring at his enemy, he wordlessly lifted Frostmourne, and the runes etched along its length gleamed. Mal’Ganis recognized the weapon and a hint of a frown curved his blue lips.

“So, you’ve taken up Frostmourne at the expense of your comrades’ lives, just as the Dark Lord said you would. You’re stronger than I thought.”

The words were heard, but there were other words, whispering silkily in his brain. Arthas listened, and then grinned fiercely.

“You waste your breath, Mal’Ganis. I heed only the voice of Frostmourne now.”

The dreadlord threw back his horned head and laughed. “You hear the voice of the Dark Lord,” Mal’Ganis retorted. He pointed a sharp, black-nailed finger at the mighty runeblade. “He whispers to you through the blade you wield!”

Arthas felt the blood drain from his face. The dreadlord’s master…spoke to him through Frostmourne? But…how could that be? Was this the final trick? Had he been gulled and delivered directly into Mal’Ganis’s taloned hands?

“What does he say, young human?” The smirk came again, the expression of one who knows something another does not. The dreadlord was gloating, reveling in this twist. “What does the Dark Lord of the Dead tell you now?”

The whispers came again, but this time it was Arthas who smirked, a mirror image of the same expression the dreadlord bore. Now it was he who knew something Mal’Ganis did not.

Arthas whirled Frostmourne over his head, the enormous blade light and graceful in his hands, and then he eased into an attack position. “He tells me that the time for my vengeance has come.”

The green, glowing eyes widened. “What? He can’t possibly mean to—”

Arthas charged.

The mighty runeblade lifted, descended. The dreadlord was taken by surprise, but only for an instant, and managed to get his staff up in time to deflect the blow. He leaped aside, great bat wings creating a quick gust of wind that blew Arthas’s golden hair about wildly but did not affect his balance or speed. He came in again and again, coldly in control but swift and deadly as a viper, the blade glowing with eagerness. A brief thought crossed his mind: Frostmourne hungers.

And a part of him responded with a frisson of fear: Hungers for what?

It did not matter. He, Arthas, hungered for revenge, and he was going to have it. Every time Mal’Ganis tried to cast a spell, Frostmourne was there, knocking him aside, slicing his flesh, harrying him until the moment came when the deathblow would be dealt. He felt Frostmourne’s anticipation, its craving, and he cried out as he swung the runeblade in a shimmering blue arc to neatly carve a deadly furrow across Mal’Ganis’s midsection.

Dark blood spurted in an arc, pattering on the snow, as the dreadlord fell. There was astonishment on his face; even at the end, he had not believed he could be defeated.

For a moment Arthas stood, the wind and snow writhing about him, the glow of the runes on Frostmourne’s blade, partially obscured by dark demonic blood, illuminating the glorious scene.

“It is finished,” he said softly.

This part of your journey, yes, young prince, Frostmourne whispered—or was it truly the Dark Lord Mal’Ganis had spoken of? He did not know or care. Carefully he bent and wiped the blade clean in the snow. But there is more. So much more. So much power that could be yours. So much knowledge and control.

Arthas remembered Muradin’s reading of the inscription. His hand went to his heart without his immediately realizing it. The blade was part of him now, and he was part of it.

The snowstorm was becoming worse. He realized with dawning surprise that he was not at all cold. He straightened, holding Frostmourne, and looked about him. The demon lay stiffening at his feet. The voice—Frostmourne’s, or the mysterious Dark Lord’s—was right.

There was more. So much more.

And the winter would teach it.

Arthas Menethil clutched the runeblade, gazed out into the snowstorm, and ran to embrace it all.

Arthas knew he would remember the bells all his life. They were rung only on occasions of great state import—a royal wedding, the birth of an heir, the funeral of a king, all the things that marked passages in the life of a kingdom. But today, they were being rung in celebration. He, Arthas Menethil, had returned home.

He had sent word ahead of his triumph. Of discovering who had been behind the plague. Of searching him out. Of slaying him, and of this day, his glorious return to his place of birth. As he strode along the road toward Capital City, on foot, he was greeted with cheers and applause, the grateful outpouring of thanks of a nation saved from disaster by their beloved prince. He accepted this as his due, but his mind was on seeing his father after so long.

“I would speak with you in private, Father, and tell you of the things I have learned and seen,” he had written into his letter, delivered a few days earlier by a swift courier. “You have, I am certain, spoken with Jaina and Uther. I can imagine what they have said—tried to turn you against me. I assure you I have only done what I believe to be the greatest good for the citizens of Lordaeron. In the end, I have destroyed the one who began this plague upon our people, and I return home victorious, eager to begin a new era for our kingdom.”

Those who marched behind him were as silent as he, their faces as cowled. The crowd did not seem to require their response to wildly celebrate their return. The mighty drawbridge was lowered and Arthas strode across it. The cheering throngs were here, too, no longer comprised of commoners, but of diplomats, lesser nobility, visiting dignitaries from the elves, dwarves, and gnomes. They stood not just in the courtyard but also above it in viewing boxes. Rose petals, pink and white and red, rained down upon the land’s returning hero.

Arthas remembered that once, he had thought to see Jaina standing before him on their wedding day, the petals falling upon a face lit with a smile, turned up to kiss him.

Jaina…

Moved by the image, he caught one of the red petals in a gloved hand. He thumbed it thoughtfully, and then frowned as a stain appeared. It grew before his eyes, desiccating and destroying the petal, until it was more brown than red in his palm. With a quick, dismissive gesture, he tossed the dead thing away and continued.

He pushed open the huge doors to the throne room he knew so well, strode forward, glanced at Terenas briefly, and threw his father a smile that was mostly hidden by the cowl. Arthas knelt in obeisance, Frostmourne held before him, its tip touching the seal carved into the stone floor.

“Ah, my son. Glad I am to see you safely home,” Terenas said, rising somewhat unsteadily.

Terenas looked unwell, Arthas thought. The incidents of the last several months had aged the monarch. His hair was grayer now, his eyes tired.

But it was all going to be all right now.

You no longer need to sacrifice for your people. You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown. I’ve taken care of everything.

Arthas rose, his armor clattering with the movement. He lifted a hand and drew back the hood from his face, watching for his father’s reaction. Terenas’s eyes widened as he took in the change that had come over his only son.

Arthas’s hair, once golden as the wheat that had given sustenance to his people, was now bone-white. He knew his face was pale as well, as if the blood had been drained from it.

It is time, Frostmourne whispered in his mind. Arthas moved toward his father, who had halted on the dais, staring, uncertain. There were several guards positioned about the room, but they would be no match against him, Frostmourne, and the two who had accompanied him. Arthas strode boldly up the carpeted steps and seized his father by the arm.

Arthas drew back his blade. Frostmourne’s runes brightened in anticipation. And then a whisper, not from the runeblade, but a memory—

—the voice of a dark-haired prince, seemingly from another lifetime ago—

“He was assassinated. A trusted friend…she killed him. Stabbed him right in the heart…”

Arthas shook his head and the voice was silenced.

“What is this? What are you doing, my son?”

“Succeeding you…Father.”

And Frostmourne’s hunger was sated—for the moment.

Arthas turned them loose then—his new, unquestioning, obedient subjects. Dispatching the guards who charged him upon the death of his father was a simple matter, and he stormed with cold purpose back out into the courtyard.

It was madness.

What had once been revelry had now become frenzy. What had once been celebration had now become a frantic flight for life. Few escaped. Most of those who had waited for hours in line to welcome their prince back now lay dead, blood congealing from hideous wounds, limbs ripped off, bodies broken. Ambassadors now lay with commoners, men and women with children, all hideously equal in death.

Arthas did not care what their eventual fate was—carrion for the crows, or new subjects to follow his rule. He would leave that to his captains, Falric and Marwyn, as bone-white as he and twice as merciless. Arthas marched through the way he had come, focused and intent upon one single thing.

Once clear of the courtyard and the corpses, animated or still, he broke into a run. No horse would bear him now; the beasts grew frantic at the smell of him and those who followed him. But he had found that he did not tire; not when Frostmourne, or the Lich King who spoke to him through the runeblade, was whispering to him. And so he ran swiftly, his legs carrying him to a place he had not been in years.

Voices swirled in his head, memories, snippets of conversations:

“You know you were not supposed to ride him yet.”

“You missed your lessons. Again…”

Invincible’s horrible screams of agony, echoing in his mind. The Light, pausing for that awful moment, as if deciding whether or not he was worthy of its grace. Jaina’s face as he ended their relationship.

“Listen to me, boy…. The shadow has already fallen, and nothing you do will deter it…. The harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you’ll deliver your people into their hands….”

“…This isn’t a blighted apple crop; this is a city full of human beings!…”

“…We know so little—we can’t just slaughter them like animals out of our own fear!”

“Ye lied tae yer men and betrayed the mercenaries who fought for ye!…That’s nae King Terenas’s boy.”

But they were the ones who could not see, could not grasp. Jaina—Uther—Terenas—Muradin. All of them, at some point, by word or look, had told him he had been wrong.

He slowed his pace as he came to the farmstead. His subjects had been here before him, and now there were only corpses lying, stiffening in the earth. Arthas steeled himself against the pain that recognition brought with it even now; they had been the lucky ones, to simply die. A man, a woman, a youth his own age.

And the snapdragons…blooming like mad this year, it would seem. Arthas stepped close and extended a hand to touch one of the beautiful, tall, lavender-blue flowers, then hesitated, remembering the rose petal.

He had not come here for flowers.

He turned and strode to a grave, nearly seven years old now. Grass had overtaken it, but the marker was still readable. He did not need to read it to know what lay here.

For a moment he stood, more moved by the death of the one in this grave than by that of his own father, by his own hand.

The power is yours, came the whispers. Do as you will.

Arthas extended one hand, Frostmourne firmly gripped in the other. Dark light began to swirl around the outstretched hand, increasing in speed. It moved from his fingers like a serpent, undulating and writhing of its own accord, and then it speared down into the earth.

Arthas felt it connect with the skeleton below. Joy flooded him, and tears stung his eyes. He lifted his hand, pulling the no-longer-dead thing from its seven-year slumber in the cool dark earth.

“Arise!” he commanded, the word bursting from his throat.

The grave erupted, showering bits of earth. Bony legs pawed, hooves seeking purchase on the shifting soil, and a skull thrust upward, breaking the surface. Arthas watched breathlessly, a smile on his too-pale face.

I saw you being born, he thought, remembering a membrane enshrouding a wriggling, wet, new little life. I helped you come into this world, and I helped you leave it…and now by my hand, you are reborn.

The skeletal steed struggled through the earth and finally emerged, planting its forelegs firmly and hoisting itself up. Red fire burned in its empty eye sockets. It tossed its head, pranced and somehow whinnied, though its soft tissue had long since rotted away.

Trembling, Arthas extended a hand to the undead creature, who whickered and nuzzled his hand with its bony muzzle. Seven years ago, he had ridden this horse to its death. Seven years ago, he had wept tears that had frozen on his face as he lifted his sword and stabbed the beloved beast straight through its gallant heart.

He had carried the guilt of that act alone all this time. But now he realized—it was all part of his destiny. If he had not slain his steed, he could not now bring it back. Alive, the horse would have feared him. Undead as it was, with fire for eyes, its bones held together by the necromantic magic that Arthas now could wield thanks to the gift of the mysterious Lich King, horse and rider could at last be reunited, as they had always been meant to be. It hadn’t been a mistake, seven years ago; he hadn’t been wrong. Not then, not now.

Not ever.

And this was proof.

Throughout the land that he now ruled, his father’s blood still slick and crimson on Frostmourne, death was coming. The change.

“This kingdom shall fall,” he promised his beloved steed as he threw his cloak over its bony back and mounted. “And from the ashes shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundation of the world!”

The horse whickered.

Invincible.