Arthas had drunk himself into a stupor and fallen asleep against the bench.
Faria covered him with a blanket, tidied the table, and closed the door on the way out.
In the darkness, a wisp of icy light drifted from Frostmourne's blade like pale smoke.
Arthas's brow twitched. He felt cold, but drunkenness weighed down his eyelids, making them difficult to open.
He woke...
Frostmourne blazed with light, illuminating the entire room.
After finally forcing his eyes open, Arthas had to shield them from the dazzling light with his right hand.
Gradually, he adjusted to the unusual, cold light. His awareness followed the scene before him into a world of ice and snow.
Crunch... crunch...
Deep snow lay beneath his feet. Following the light, Arthas slowly made his way toward the summit.
Was this a dream? Arthas instinctively glanced at his right hand. Finding Frostmourne still there, he let out a long breath of relief.
At some point, this divine weapon had become something he always kept at his side.
Arthas knew perfectly well that this unhealthy dependence posed an enormous danger, yet he dismissed it with the same excuse every time.
Such a minor issue was not worth considering. Arthas had a clear goal: take command of the Silver Hand, then ascend the throne and await his father's coronation of him.
The path to the summit was long. Arthas had no idea how long he had walked before he finally reached the end.
Fortunately, this was a dream. He felt no fatigue and remained full of energy.
The freezing wind howled, scattering snowflakes onto his pauldrons and wrists. Arthas caught a few and crushed them in his hand, his gaze settling on the throne at the far end of the frozen platform.
Hum! Frostmourne's blade quivered, and its weapon