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?”