“Poor Varian,” he said, quick tears of sympathy coming to his eyes.

Uther patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Aye,” he said. “It is a dark day for the boy.”

Arthas shivered suddenly, and not from the cold of a bright winter’s day. The beautiful afternoon, with its blue sky and softly curving snow-draped landscape, had suddenly darkened for him.

A few days later, Arthas was standing up on the castle’s ramparts, keeping Falric, one of the guards, company and handing him a steaming hot mug of tea. Such a visit, like the ones Arthas paid to the Balnir family and the castle’s scullery maids and valets and blacksmiths and indeed nearly every underling on the royal grounds, was not unusual. Terenas always sighed, but Arthas knew that no one was ever punished for speaking with him, and indeed he sometimes wondered if his father secretly approved.

Falric smiled gratefully and bowed deeply in genuine respect, pulling off his gauntlets so the mug would warm his cold hands. Snow threatened, and the sky was a pale gray, but thus far the weather was clear. Arthas leaned against the wall, resting his chin on his folded arms. He looked out over the rolling white hills of Tirisfal, down the road that led through Silverpine Forest to Southshore. The road along which Anduin Lothar, the mage Khadgar, and Prince Varian would be traveling.

“Any sign of them?”

“Nay, Your Highness,” Falric answered, sipping the hot beverage. “It could be today, tomorrow, or the day after. If you’re hoping to catch a glimpse, sir, you may be waiting awhile.”