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.