“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.