“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.