The stallion’s coat, mane, and tail, gray at his birth, had turned white as the snow that had coated the ground on that day. It was a color that was rare even among the Balnir-bred horses, whose “white” coats were really mostly just light gray. Arthas had toyed with names like “Snowfall” or “Starlight,” but in the end, he followed the informal tradition of Lordaeron knights and gave his steed the name of a quality. Uther’s mount was “Steadfast,” Terenas’s “Courageous.”

His was “Invincible.”

Arthas wanted desperately to ride Invincible, but the horsemaster warned that two years old was at least a year too young. “Two’s a baby,” he’d said. “They’re still growing; their bones are still forming. Be patient, Your Highness. Another year isn’t that long to wait for a horse that’ll serve you well for two decades.”

But it was a long time to wait. Too long. Arthas glanced back over his shoulder at the horse, growing impatient with the plodding canter that seemed the most that Trueheart could summon. In contrast with the elderly gelding, the two-year-old moved almost as if floating, with hardly any effort. His ears were pricked forward, and his nostrils flared as he scented the smells of the glade. His eyes were bright and he seemed to be saying, Come on, Arthas…. It’s what I was born for.

Surely one ride couldn’t hurt. Just a little canter, and then back to the stables as if nothing had happened.

He slowed Trueheart to a walk and tied the reins to a low-slung tree branch. Invincible whickered as Arthas walked up to him. The prince grinned at the velvety softness of the muzzle brushing his palm as he fed the horse a piece of apple. Invincible was used to having a saddle; it was part of the slow and patient breaking process, to get the horse accustomed to having something on its back. But an empty saddle was much different from a live human being. Still, he’d spent a lot of time with the animal. Arthas said a short prayer and then quickly, before Invincible could sidestep out of the way, vaulted onto the horse’s back.

Invincible reared, neighing furiously. Arthas wrapped his hands in the wiry mane and clung like a burr with every inch of his long legs. The horse hopped and bucked, but Arthas held on. He yelped as Invincible tried to scrape him off by running beneath one of the branches, but did not let go.

And then Invincible was galloping.

Or rather, he was flying. Or at least so it seemed to the giddy young prince, who crouched low on the horse’s neck and grinned widely. He’d never been on an animal this fast before, and his heart pounded with excitement. He didn’t even try to control Invincible; it was all he could do to simply hang on. It was glorious, wild, beautiful, everything he’d dreamed of. They would—

Before he even realized what had happened, Arthas was hurtling through the air to land hard on the grassy earth. For a long moment he couldn’t breathe from the impact. Slowly he got to his feet. His body ached, but nothing was broken.

But Invincible was a rapidly disappearing dot in the distance. Arthas swore violently, kicking a hillock and balling his fists. He was in for it now.

Sir Uther the Lightbringer was waiting for him upon his return. Arthas grimaced as he slid off Trueheart and handed the reins to a groomsman.

“Invincible came back a short time ago by himself. He had a nasty cut on his leg, but I’m sure you’ll be glad to know the horsemaster says he’ll be fine.”

Arthas debated lying, telling Uther they’d been spooked and Invincible had fled. But it was obvious from the grass stains on his clothes that he’d fallen, and Uther would never believe that the prince couldn’t stay on gentle old Trueheart, spooked or not.

“You know you were not supposed to ride him yet,” Uther continued inexorably.

Arthas sighed. “I know.”

“Arthas, do you not understand? If you put too much pressure on him at this age he—”

“I get it, all right? I could cripple him. It was just the one time.”

“And that’s all it will be, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Arthas said, sullenly.

“You missed your lessons. Again.”

Arthas was silent and did not look up at Uther. He was angry, embarrassed, and hurting, and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and some briarthorn tea to ease the pain. His right knee was starting to swell.

“At least you are in time for the prayer session this afternoon.” Uther eyed him up and down. “Though you’ll need to wash up.” Arthas was indeed sweaty and knew he smelled like horse. It was a good smell, he thought. An honest one. “Hurry up. We’ll be assembling in the chapel.”

Arthas wasn’t even sure what the prayer session was focusing on today. He felt vaguely bad about that; the Light was important to both his father and Uther, and he knew that they badly wanted him to be as devout as they were. But while he couldn’t argue with the evidence of his own eyes—the Light was most definitely real; he’d seen priests and the new order of the paladins work true miracles with healing and protection—he’d never felt called to sit and meditate for hours as Uther did, or make frequent references in reverent tones as did his father. It was just…there.

An hour later, scrubbed and changed into an outfit that was simple yet elegant, Arthas hurried to the small family chapel in the royal wing.

It was not a large room, but it was beautiful. It was a miniature version of the traditional chapel style that could be seen in every human town, perhaps a trifle more lavish with regard to the details. The chalice that was shared was finely wrought of gold and inlaid with gems; the table upon which it lay, an antique. Even the benches had comfortable padding, while the common folk had to make do with flat wooden ones.

He realized as he entered quietly that he was the last—and winced as he recalled that several important personages were visiting his father. In addition to the regular attendees—his family, Uther, and Muradin—King Trollbane was present, though he looked even less happy than Arthas to be here. And…someone else. A girl, slender and straight with long blond hair, her back turned to him. Arthas peered at her, curious, and bumped into one of the benches.

He might as well have dropped a plate. Queen Lianne, still a beauty in her early fifties, turned at the sound, smiling affectionately at her son. Her gown was perfectly arranged, her hair pulled back in a golden coif from which no unruly tendril escaped. Calia, fourteen and looking as gawky and coltish as Invincible had been at his birth, shot him a scowl. Evidently, word of his misdeeds had gotten out—or else she was just angry with him at being late. Terenas nodded at him, then returned his eyes to the bishop giving the service. Arthas cringed inwardly at the quiet disapproval in that gaze. Trollbane paid him no mind, and Muradin, too, did not turn.

Arthas slouched down onto one of the benches against the back wall. The bishop began to speak and lifted his hands, limned with a soft, white radiance. Arthas wished the girl would turn a little so he could catch a glimpse of her face. Who was she? Obviously the daughter of a noble or someone else of high rank, else she would not be invited to attend private family services. He thought about who she might be, more interested in discovering her identity than in the words of the service.

“…and His Royal Highness, Arthas Menethil,” intoned the bishop. Arthas jerked to attention, wondering if he’d missed something important. “May the Light’s blessing be upon him in every thought, word, and deed, so that he may thrive beneath it and grow to serve it as its paladin.” Arthas felt a sudden calming warmth flow through him as the blessing was laid upon him. The stiffness and soreness vanished, leaving him refreshed and at peace. The bishop turned to the queen and the princess. “May the Light shine on Her Royal Majesty, Lianne Menethil, that she—”