Winter had wrapped the land in its relentless, icy grasp, smothering sound and life beneath a suffocating blanket of frost. The air was sharp and bitter, tinged with the faint, metallic tang of blood long since spilled, and carried with it the mingling scent of pine—a cruel reminder of life amidst so much death.
Arthas stood alone atop the watchtower, his breath escaping in trembling wisps, each one vanishing into the pale, uncaring sky.
Below, the ground lay thick with snow, its pristine surface marred only by the faint crunch of weary boots and the grim remains of battles long past: splintered shields, abandoned swords, and makeshift graves hastily marked by fragile wooden crosses.
The cold gnawed at his flesh, but it was nothing compared to the deep, aching void within his chest—a wound that no healer could mend.
His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to his family. He imagined them safe and warm by the hearth, the scent of woodsmoke curling through their home, mingling with the aroma of baked bread.
The memory brought both solace and torment, a cruel juxtaposition against the stark desolation before him. What right did he have to dream of such comforts while so many lay frozen in unmarked graves, their dreams extinguished like fragile flames?
The encampment below had grown over the past eight months, transforming from a chaotic sprawl of tattered tents into a grim fortress of stone and iron. But the progress felt hollow.
Despite the fortifications, the orcish raids came like waves against a cliff, relentless and unyielding.
Arthas had seen too much to find hope in stone walls.
Every defense they built seemed only to mark the places where they would die a little slower.
He traced the scar on his chest with absent fingers, the jagged reminder of a troll's wicked blade. The pain of that wound was distant now, dulled by time, but the shame it carried was fresh and sharp. It had rendered him unfit for the front lines, reduced to a guardian's role, watching others fight and fall while he tended his broken body.
"This war will devour us all," he whispered into the stillness, his voice brittle as frost.
His gaze fell to the soldiers below—young men and women, their eyes hollow, their laughter forced. How many of them would see another spring? The thought of his own sons, bright and full of life, being conscripted into this endless slaughter clawed at his soul.
How could he face them, knowing he had built this legacy of death?
The creak of wood broke his reverie. Arthas turned to see Viscount Edward ascending the tower, his age-worn features a mask of grim determination. The older man leaned heavily on the railing, his breath misting in the frigid air.
"How fares the wound, lad?" Edward asked, his voice rough but not unkind.
Arthas hesitated, then forced a weak smile. "It aches, my lord. But pain is a companion I've grown accustomed to."
Edward nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon, where the enemy's camp loomed like a shadowed wound against the earth.
"You're lucky to still breathe, Arthas. But luck has its limits. This war... it will not end in glory. Only ash and ruin."
The viscount's words were heavy with the weight of truth, and Arthas felt them settle on his shoulders like another layer of frost.
"I fear you're right, my lord," he said quietly. "But what choice do we have? If I leave now, how can I look my sons in the eye? What legacy do I give them, if not the will to fight?"
Edward turned to him, his expression softening. "A legacy of love, lad. A legacy of peace. Go home. Hold your wife. See your sons. Heal in more ways than one. You'll find no redemption on this frozen ground—only a grave."
Arthas's throat tightened, and for a moment, he could not speak.
The thought of home—of warm arms and unguarded laughter—was like a blade piercing the armor he had built around his heart.
He nodded, his voice breaking as he said, "Thank you, my lord. I'll take your counsel... though my heart feels heavy for it."
Edward clapped his shoulder, his touch firm but fleeting, as if afraid to linger too long. "We all carry burdens, Arthas. But yours need not be borne alone."
As the viscount descended, leaving him once again to the solitude of the tower, Arthas turned his eyes back to the horizon.
The battlefield stretched out before him, silent and still, but he could feel its hunger. It whispered promises of valor and vengeance, a seductive call that tugged at the frayed edges of his resolve.
But for the first time, Arthas allowed himself to look beyond it—to the warmth of home, the embrace of those he loved, and the hope that perhaps, in their arms, he might find a measure of peace.
The wind howled, carrying with it the Phases of fallen comrades, their voices lost in the endless winter. Arthas bowed his head, a single tear freezing on his cheek as he whispered, "Forgive me."
Meanwhile, in the Kane residence, Aldrich awoke with a start, his heart racing, the faint echo of his dreams slipping away like shadows in the dawn. The flickering light of the hearth painted restless shapes across the modest yet elegant room. Despite the warmth, he felt a chill—a weight that pressed on his chest, both familiar and suffocating.
Stretching, he began his morning routine, the rhythmic movements of the Greatsword art grounding him in the present.
Each swing and pivot, taught by his father, was precise, almost ritualistic, the clang of his blade against a training dummy echoing in the quiet. But beneath the discipline lay a simmering restlessness, an urgency he couldn't quite name.
Though only two years old, his mystically enhanced body bore the appearance of a seven-year-old. In his room, Aldrich moved with practiced grace, the sound of his exertion a faint defiance against the oppressive silence that clung to the Kane manor.
After an hour, he dismissed his maid Bea's offer to help with an awkward smile. "I'll manage, Aunt Bea," he said softly, retreating to the bath to scrub away the sweat and unease that clung to him like a second skin.
When he emerged, Bea greeted him, her bow deeper than usual. "Young Master, breakfast is ready," she said, but her voice wavered, her eyes darting away.
Aldrich noticed the tension in her shoulders, the subtle hesitation in her movements. She must have heard the quarrel last night—the clash of voices, his brothers' accusations slicing through the manor's walls.
"Aunt Bea, where's Anna?" Aldrich asked, forcing a cheerful tone that felt like a poorly fitted mask.
Bea's hands fidgeted with her apron, worry flickering in her gaze. "She's resting. She had a fever last night."
The news hit him like a dull blow. "Fetch her some medicine," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I miss our studies."
Bea nodded and started to leave, but Aldrich's voice stopped her. "Do we have any playing cards?"
"There are some in the library," she replied. "I'll bring them while you eat."
"Thanks, Aunt Bea." He smiled, but the weight in her eyes lingered as she left.
The dining room was a stark contrast to the warmth he sought. Though the long oak table gleamed and the air was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon, tension hung heavy, stifling the comfort of the flickering hearth.
His brothers, William and Magnus, were already seated, their gazes sharp and unyielding. William, broad-shouldered and imposing, loomed like a storm cloud, while Magnus, lean and calculating, sat like a blade poised to strike.
As Aldrich took his seat at the far end of the table, the room seemed to constrict.
Bea entered quietly, placing food before them with the practiced efficiency of someone desperate to avoid notice, she also silently placed the deck of cards near the plate of Aldrich.
The clink of cutlery against porcelain was the only sound, each bite a forced ritual in the charged silence.
Finally, William's voice broke the stillness, low and trembling with restrained fury. "You're not our brother." He leaned forward, fists clenched, his knuckles white against the table. "I don't need proof. If you ever harm this family, I will kill you."
The words struck like a hammer, reverberating through the room. Aldrich froze, the bread halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he set it down, his expression unreadable.
Magnus leaned back, his tone cold and deliberate. "We've suspected for a while. Admit it. The truth, Aldrich. We deserve that much."
The weight of their stares pressed against him like a physical force. He felt the knot in his chest tighten, the air leaving his lungs in shallow, measured breaths. After a moment, he looked up, meeting their eyes with a calm that belied the turmoil inside.
"Yes," he said softly, the single word falling like a stone into still water. "I am not your brother." His voice did not waver, but his hands clenched under the table, nails biting into his palms.
"But I mean no harm. I consider you all my family." His gaze sharpened, flicking between them.
"Stop provoking me, or I'll use this body to my advantage."
The threat hung in the air like a blade, unspoken but unmistakable.
Slowly, deliberately, Aldrich pocketed the cards Bea had placed beside him and rose. His movements were deliberate, measured—a man holding a fragile mask of control. Without another word, he left the room, the oppressive silence trailing after him like a shadow.
Back in his room, Aldrich collapsed against the door, his chest heaving as he slid to the floor. "Well, that was... fun," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Nothing like starting your morning with a nice, heartwarming family death threat. Really gets the blood pumping."
He pulled out the deck of cards Bea had given him and shuffled it absentmindedly. "You're not our brother," he mimicked in a mockingly deep voice, throwing in an exaggerated scowl for good measure.
"If you ever harm this family, I'll kill you. Gee, thanks, William. Love you too, buddy. And Magnus? Oh, you 'deserve the truth,' do you? Sure, because that's definitely what this family is famous for—truth and hugs."
Aldrich sighed, plucking a random card from the deck and holding it up. "Alright, trusty deck of destiny. Let's see if you can redeem this disaster. Cast Pick a Card!" The card shimmered gold as it activated.
With a dramatic flourish, Aldrich hurled it at his target—a coat rack in the corner of the room.
The card veered wildly off course, smacking into a lamp instead. The lamp exploded in a dazzling burst of golden light, scattering shards of glass across the floor.
Aldrich groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Seriously? Of all the things in this room, you had to hit the one thing that breaks. Why not the coat rack? It's literally just standing there, begging to be hit. 'Hit me, Aldrich,' it says. 'Prove you're not a complete disaster.' But noooo, the lamp gets it. R.I.P. lamp. You died for a noble cause: my utter incompetence."
Grabbing a broom, he began sweeping up the shards, muttering under his breath. "Maybe I should just become a professional lamp destroyer. It's clearly my calling. Forget being a warrior. I'll start a lamp-smashing business. 'Aldrich's Annihilation Services: We light up your life... and then destroy it.'"
He paused, leaning on the broom as he stared at the mess. Despite the humor, a knot tightened in his chest, the weight of his brothers' words lingering. He let out a long breath. "Alright, no more pity parties. They think I'm a threat? Fine. I'll show them the truth—after I learn how to throw cards properly. Step one: stop aiming like a blindfolded squirrel. Step two: convince the coat rack it's not a lost cause."
A small grin tugged at his lips as he finished sweeping. "One day, coat rack. One day."