Chapter 2: The Queen's Gilded Plea
Who in the hall didn't know Arthas Menethil? To feign ignorance of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Lordaeron, was to court exile from polite society. The nobles wielded power like sharpened blades, but even they bowed to the throne's shadow. As the kingdom's sole legitimate heir—his only sibling a yet-unwed sister—Arthas commanded the world's envy and the court's whispers. Favored? Nay, he was its very sun, with every whim within reach.
When that dazzling Holy Light erupted from the prince, bathing the assembly in its warm embrace, awe rippled like a tide. The radiance seeped into skin and soul, dissolving petty envies and base urges, leaving only serenity in its wake. Nobles knelt instinctively; servants murmured prayers—all drawn to the divine aura as moths to a flame.
Arthas hovered mid-air, enveloped in the Light's golden cocoon, absorbing its purifying might. The surge lasted over a minute—a silent communion that reshaped him from within. Slowly, he descended, his lashes fluttering open to reveal eyes aglow with inner fire. At fourteen, he stood nearly 1.7 meters tall, his frame hinting at the warrior-king he would become: still growing, still hungry for more.
"Arthas, are you all right?"
A vision of grace approached, concern etching her elegant features. A golden circlet gleamed upon her smooth forehead, marking her as queen. Delicate yet commanding, her face bore the faint bloom of a perpetual smile, untouched by time's cruel hand. Cascades of golden hair tumbled like sunlight over her shoulders, framing eyes soft as summer pools; a high nose lent scholarly poise, and full lips curved in tender invitation. Her oval visage evoked polished jade, her prominent bosom straining against the royal gown's bodice, exposing a flawless neck of creamy marble. Slender forearms gleamed like carved ivory, flawless to the touch. The dress cinched at her narrow waist, accentuating the dramatic flare of her hips—round and inviting—while her legs, toned and shapely, promised endless allure. Jade slippers, perched on heels near ten centimeters high, elevated this symphony of curves to intoxicating heights.
This was Arthas's mother, Queen Lianne Menethil, born to the seafaring nobility of Kul Tiras and the influential Ashvane lineage—one of its four great houses. Her sister, Priscilla Ashvane, commanded the isles' trade fleets with iron will and sharper wits; her power was a tide that had swept Lianne to Lordaeron's throne. Nobles wedded nobles; commoners served as mistresses at best—footnotes in lineage tomes.
At her side walked a woman of 1.65 meters, her figure a study in lithe allure. An oval face framed phoenix eyes that sparkled with innate charm, her delicate lips parting to reveal a smile of pearly teeth. Though her breasts were modestly sized, they swelled firm and round—like ripe grapefruits begging a gentle squeeze. This was Arthas's sister, Calia Menethil, a vision of youthful promise.
Arthas shook his head, offering a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Mother—truly. The gods have spoken; I communed with our ancestors. They urge diligence, bid me strive to match Father's greatness as king."
"Hah! Truly, my son? My deeds scarce brush one-ten-thousandth of theirs. You're certain you're unharmed?"
A booming laugh cut the air, heralding an elder in a jeweled crown. Though silver threaded his hair and beard, vigor burned in his eyes like forge-fires. This was Terenas Menethil, King of Lordaeron—the alliance's ambitious architect, whose dreams spanned continents.
Arthas felt no deep paternal bond for this "cheap father," forged more by circumstance than blood. Fourteen years of shared hearths had woven threads of kinship, if not love. Terenas was no saint, but neither a tyrant—generous in his way, flawed yet fair.
"Yes, Father. The Holy Light guides me, and the ancestral kings rage at the green-skinned scourge from the south. They defile our lands, slaughter our kin—their sins demand retribution. I beseech you: Let me join the Alliance of Lordaeron's war. You bear the alliance's weight alone; allow me to shoulder some, honoring the ancients' call."
Tension thickened the air like gathering storm clouds. Wars devoured princes as readily as peasants—witness the fallen King of Stormwind, slain amid his capital's rubble. Rank offered no shield against steel and sorcery.
Queen Lianne's gaze softened with maternal ache. Her precious boy, thrust to the wolves? Unthinkable. Yet she held her tongue; the forge of battle tempered crowns, and to deny it was to doom him unfit.
Terenas fell silent, his mind a whirlwind of maps and motives. The seven human realms had warred as often as traded, their fragile pact born of desperation after Stormwind's fall. As alliance lord, he shouldered betrayals and burdens alike. Spare his son the fray? Tempting. But growth demanded risk—and a prince in the field shamed the laggards.
"Very well," he conceded at last. "You'll learn governance at Uther the Lightbringer's side—as his adjutant, not commander. Heed his word as mine. Understood?"
"Yes, Father. I won't fail you."
Ecstasy surged through Arthas, veiled as princely resolve. Freedom—at last! Command meant voice; soldiers meant leverage. With them, he'd weave trade webs, amass coffers... and indulge fancies unbound. Visions danced: lithe high elf maidens, gasping in ecstasy beneath him, their sun-kissed skin flushed with surrender. His pulse quickened at the thought, a forbidden thrill amid the hall's pious glow.
Terenas turned to the assembly, voice booming. "Uther, the prince serves as your aide. Command him as you see fit—spare no lesson."
It was no mere paternal whim. With rival kings watching, Terenas deftly shifted burdens: Arthas aided, not led—glory his if won, blame diffused if lost. And by offering his heir, he pricked the others' consciences. How could they hoard their sons when Lordaeron bled first?
The monarchs of the five realms—cunning foxes all—seethed inwardly at the ploy. Outwardly, they heaped praise: "A prince of such valor!" "Terenas's courage inspires us all!" Frustration soured their smiles, but envy sharpened their resolve.
"As you command, Your Majesty. Your will is my oath."
Uther the Lightbringer stepped forward, his plate armor gleaming under the chandeliers. A legend among paladins—stubborn as Ironforge stone, pedantic as a loremaster's tome, yet unyieldingly just and bold. Flaws aplenty, but his fealty to the Light and crown burned absolute, a beacon in darkening times.
Arthas met his gaze, the Light's echo still thrumming in his veins. The wars beckoned—not as pawn, but as architect of his fate. And in their shadows, empires of the heart awaited conquest.