The boy, fragile and slight, had been knocked out of his chair by the violent gusts of frigid air. Now he propped himself up with an effort, shaking, his breaths coming in small puffs as he struggled to climb back into his chair. He threw the man a look—of hope, fear, and odd determination.

“All is not lost,” he whispered, and somehow, despite the orc and the skull’s laughter, despite the shrieking of the wind, the man heard him.

“Hold her head; that’s it, lad!”

The mare, her normally white coat gray with sweat, rolled her eyes and whickered. Prince Arthas Menethil, only son to King Terenas Menethil II, one day to rule the kingdom of Lordaeron, held fast to the bridle and murmured soothingly.

The horse jerked her head violently and almost took the nine-year-old with her. “Whoa, Brightmane,” Arthas said. “Easy, girl, it’ll be all right. Nothing to worry about.”

Jorum Balnir grunted in amusement. “doubt you’d feel that way if something the size of this foal was coming out of you, lad.”

His son Jarim, crouching beside his father and the prince, laughed and so did Arthas, giggling uncontrollably even as hot and soggy foam from Brightmane’s champing mouth dropped onto his leg.

“One more push, girl,” Balnir said, moving slowly along the horse’s body to where the foal, encased in a shiny shroudlike membrane, was halfway through its journey into the world.

Arthas wasn’t really supposed to be here. But when he had no lessons, he often sneaked away to the Balnir farmstead to admire the horses Balnir was known for breeding and to play with his friend Jarim. Both youths were well aware that a horsebreeder’s son, even one whose animals were regularly bought as mounts for the royal household, was not a “proper” companion for a prince. Neither cared much, and thus far none of the adults had put a halt to the friendship. And so it was that he had been here, building forts, throwing snowballs, and playing Guards and Bandits with Jarim, when Jorum had called to the boys to come watch the miracle of birth.

The “miracle of birth” was actually pretty disgusting, Arthas thought. He hadn’t realized there’d be so much…goo involved. Brightmane grunted and heaved again, her legs held stiff and straight out, and with a sloshy wet sound her baby entered the world.

Her heavy head thumped down into Arthas’s lap, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Her sides heaved as she caught her breath. The boy smiled, stroking the damp neck and thick, rough mane, and looked over to where Jarim and his father were attending to the foal. It was chilly in the stables at this time of year, and steam rose faintly from its warm, wet body. With a towel and dry hay, father and son rubbed off the last of the foal’s unsettling shroudlike covering, and Arthas felt his face stretching in a grin.

Damp, gray, all long tangled legs and big eyes, the foal looked around, blinking in the dim lantern light. Those large brown eyes locked with Arthas’s. You’re beautiful, Arthas thought, his breath stopping for a moment, and realized that the much touted “miracle of birth” really was pretty miraculous.

Brightmane began to struggle to her feet. Arthas leaped to his own and pressed back against the wooden walls of the stable so the great animal could turn around without crushing him. Mother and newborn sniffed each other, then Brightmane grunted and began to bathe her son with her long tongue.

“Eh, lad, you’re a bit worse for wear,” said Jorum.

Arthas looked down at himself and his heart sank. He was covered in straw and horse spittle. Arthas shrugged. “Maybe I should jump into a snowbank on my way back to the palace,” he offered, grinning. Sobering slightly, he said, “Don’t worry. I’m nine years old now. I’m no longer a baby. I can go where I—”

There was a squawking of chickens and the sound of a man’s booming voice, and Arthas’s face fell. He squared his small shoulders, made an intense but ultimately ineffectual attempt at brushing off the straw, and strode out of the barn.

“Sir Uther,” he said in his best I am the prince and you had best remember it voice. “These people have been kind to me. I pray you, don’t go trampling their poultry.”

Or their snapdragon beds, he thought, glancing over at the snow-covered piles of raised earth where the beautiful blooming flowers that were Vara Balnir’s pride and joy would burst forth in a few short months. He heard Jorum and Jarim follow him out from the barn, but did not glance behind him, instead regarding the mounted knight, fully clad in—

“Armor!” Arthas gasped. “What’s happened?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Uther said grimly. “I’ll send someone back for your horse, Prince Arthas. Steadfast can travel faster even with two.” He reached down, a large hand closing on Arthas’s arm, and swung the boy up in front of him as if he weighed nothing at all. Vara had come out of the house at the sound of a horse approaching at full gallop. She was wiping her hands off on a towel, and had a smudge of flour on her nose. Her blue eyes were wide, and she looked over at her husband worriedly. Uther nodded politely to her.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Uther said. “Ma’am.” He touched his forehead with a mailed hand in courteous salute, then kicked his horse Steadfast—armored as his rider was—and the beast leaped into action.

Uther’s arm was like a band of steel around Arthas’s midsection. Fear bubbled up inside the boy but he pushed it down even as he pushed on Uther’s arm. “I know how to ride,” he said, his petulance covering up his worry. “Tell me what is going on.”

“A rider from Southshore has come and gone. He brings ill news. A few days ago, hundreds of small boats filled with refugees from Stormwind landed on our shores,” Uther said. He did not remove his arm. Arthas gave up that particular struggle and craned his neck, listening intently, his sea-green eyes wide and fastened on Uther’s grim face. “Stormwind has fallen.”

“What? Stormwind? How? To who? What—”

“We’ll find all that out shortly. The survivors, including Prince Varian, are being led by Stormwind’s onetime Champion, Lord Anduin Lothar. He, Prince Varian, and others will be coming to Capital City in a few days. Lothar has warned us he bears alarming news—obvious enough if something has destroyed Stormwind. I was sent to find you and bring you back. You’ve no business playing with the common folk at this moment.”

Stunned, Arthas turned and faced forward again, his hands gripping Steadfast’s mane. Stormwind! He had never been there, but had heard tales about it. It was a mighty place, with great stone walls and beautiful buildings. It had been built with sturdiness in mind, to withstand the buffeting of the fierce winds from which it had taken its name. To think that it had fallen—who or what could be strong enough to take such a city?

“How many people came with them?” he asked, pitching his voice louder than he really wished to in order to be heard over the drumming of the horse’s hooves as they headed back toward the city.

“Unknown. Not a small number, that much is certain. The messenger said it was everyone who had survived.”

Survived what?

“And Prince Varian?” He’d heard of Varian all his life, of course, just as he knew all the names of the neighboring kings, queens, princes, and princesses. Suddenly his eyes widened. Uther had mentioned Varian—but not the prince’s father, King Llane—

“Will soon become King Varian. King Llane fell with Stormwind.”

This news of a single tragedy hit Arthas harder somehow than the thought of thousands of people suddenly rendered homeless. Arthas’s own family was close-knit—he, his sister, Calia, his mother, Queen Lianne, and of course King Terenas. He’d seen how some rulers behaved with their families, and knew that his was remarkable in the degree of closeness. To have lost your city, your way of life, and your father—