Chapter 12: Deathwing Appears
"Do you truly have a plan, brother?"
Calia Menethil stood near Arthas, her posture proper but her tone edged with quiet desperation. Born a princess of Lordaeron, she understood the burdens placed upon her—royal daughters were instruments of treaty and alliance, seldom the authors of their own destinies.
Arthas smiled reassuringly, touching her shoulder with a tempered gentleness. "Trust me. I will speak with Father. Leave this to me. You should rest, Calia—I will handle what lies ahead. I value your counsel and presence."
He pressed a brief kiss upon her forehead. For an instant, Calia looked away, her thoughts veiled in uncertainty. Arthas lingered only long enough to mask the turmoil that lingered beneath his calm exterior. Though his spirit burned with ambition and power, he would not act rashly. His sister's political worth and his own composure both demanded restraint.
Leaving her chambers, Arthas turned toward the royal study, mind already shaping its next deception. The Holy Light—a force revered, mysterious, and often misunderstood—would serve as his justification before Terenas.
He pushed open the carved oak doors. To his surprise, another figure stood beside his father: a tall, broad-shouldered nobleman whose every gesture exuded practiced grace. Something about the man set Arthas on edge—not by demeanor, but by what his otherworldly perception revealed. Above the stranger's head hovered a name whispered through the ages:
Daval Prestor—Deathwing.
Deathwing, the fallen Aspect of Earth. Once Neltharion the Earth-Warder, now the Black Dragon corrupted by the whispers of the Old Gods. A creature whose deceit had sundered the Blue Dragonflight and whose influence still poisoned mortal politics in the guise of human nobility.
"Arthas, you arrive at a good time," said Terenas Menethil II warmly. "This is Duke Prestor, lord of Alterac. Duke, this is my son, Prince Arthas."
Arthas bowed slightly, concealing his tension. He answered evenly, "Father, I came to seek your permission. I need Calia's presence. She and I both serve the Light's call. I believe I can achieve something greater—perhaps even approach the realm of living demigods—but I will need her support."
Terenas frowned. "Demigods? Childish dreams." His tone cut sharply as his fist struck the desk.
Deathwing's eyes glinted with amusement. "Tell me, Your Highness," he said smoothly, "do you know what truly defines a demigod?"
"The soul of such a being is bound to the world," Arthas answered, voice deliberate. "They cannot die as mortals do. Whether their strength is supreme or not, they endure."
Deathwing smiled faintly, though his gaze carried the depth of continents torn asunder. "And the Holy Light granted you this insight?"
Arthas inclined his head with feigned humility. "Perhaps, or perhaps it is only faith's illusion. Either way, I will serve the Light's will."
"Then we shall dine this evening," Deathwing said with perfect politeness, concealing his amusement.
Terenas dismissed him courteously. "Forgive us, Duke Prestor. My son and I have matters to discuss. We will call upon you soon."
Deathwing bowed with faultless nobility and departed—a dragon in human skin, leaving the room faintly colder than before.
Once the door closed, the King's patience broke. "Arthas, explain yourself."
"I speak the truth, Father. The Light reveals more to me than to others. My power feels… inherited, as though passed through the ages. I must understand it. To do so, I need Calia near. She alone can be spared the duties that weigh upon you and Mother. Allow her to remain until I master my calling."
Terenas regarded him in silence, weighing ambition against affection. Arthas met his gaze unflinching.
In his heart, the prince's thoughts turned dark. Let him live and die in peace, he mused. I do not need his throne yet—only the freedom to shape the fate of Lordaeron myself.