CHAPTER 11: A Most Forbidden Task
The flickering torchlight of the tavern cast long shadows across Muradin Bronzebeard's weathered face. His eyes, gleaming like polished dwarven steel, fixed on me as I leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. "I've heard whispers of a treasure buried deep in Grim Batol Castle—one that could bend dragons to a master's will. And beneath it all? Titan ruins, ancient and humming with forgotten power."
Muradin's bushy eyebrows shot up, his tankard pausing midway to his lips. As a legendary warrior of Khaz Modan, he was no stranger to tales of glory, but this stirred something primal. His strength was a force of nature: immune to magic, surging with raw power that could stand toe-to-toe with an adult dragon on solid ground. In the skies, though? Even he knew better.
"How in the blazes d'ye know this, lad?" Muradin rumbled, curiosity etching deeper lines into his craggy features. But not a flicker of doubt, I noted. A decade of mentorship had forged an unbreakable bond. He was the only one I'd trust with this. He was pure, uncomplicated steel, a loyal, point-and-shoot weapon in a world of backstabbing termites. I needed a tank who could punch a dragon in the face if this went south.
I flashed a roguish grin, tapping the side of my nose. "Secrets, my friend, are like the fine ales you've stashed away in your cellars. Best savored, not spilled." Our laughter boomed through the dimly lit bar, a shared rhythm. Trust like theirs was a rare vintage, earned in sweat and steel.
We lingered over a hearty meal—roast boar dripping with juices, crusty bread, and steaming root vegetables—but I stuck to my spiced juice, waving off the ale.
"Not yet, old bear. A clear head keeps the blade sharp. Besides, I've got empires to topple before I drown in barley water." Truth be told, I guarded my sobriety like a vault. One slip in this world, and the wine could turn to poison. And besides, after the very thorough "tasting" I'd shared with my aunt this morning, plain ale seemed... laughably unsatisfying.
As the evening waned, I bid farewell to the dwarf and made my way back to the opulent sprawl of Lordaeron's palace, the cool night air sharpening my thoughts. In a quiet antechamber, I found my old comrade Varian Wrynn, the young prince of Stormwind, pacing like a caged lion. His life had been a forge of tragedies: orcs had razed his kingdom, slain his father, and left him adrift as a refugee. Yet those fires had tempered him. In the years to come, as High King, even the haughty, ten-thousand-year-old night elves would bow to his command. A human leading immortals. It spoke volumes. He was a good man. A great weapon.
"Ho, Varian," I called, clapping a hand on his shoulder with genuine warmth.
Varian turned, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach his storm-gray eyes. "Arthas. You're glowing like you just felled a dragon yourself. How fares the front?"
"Well enough. The orcs bleed green, and the wind's at our backs." I paused, reading the envy in his clenched jaw. "And you? Still buried in scrolls and simpers?" Poor Varian. All that rage, nowhere to put it. He's like a walking powder keg.
A bitter chuckle escaped him. "Envy doesn't cover it. I ache to swing a sword at those green-skinned bastards—to avenge Stormwind, my father... everything." His fists tightened.
I nodded, my voice steady. This was my cue. "Your time's coming, brother. Hone that edge now—no mistakes, no cracks. When you're crowned, we'll stand shoulder-to-shoulder, axes high. Until then, study those dusty tomes. Kings aren't born; they're forged." I clasped his forearm, pouring every ounce of "Pious Prince" sincerity I had into the gesture. He's eating it up. Good. "Luck, my friend. We'll raise a true toast soon."
Varian managed a real smile. "Aye. Clear skies, Arthas."
With a final nod, I slipped away, my mind already on the strategies ahead. Bradensbrook's crossroads loomed—a pivotal clash. I'd lure the Alliance forces into a feint, then strike like lightning at Grim Batol. There, amid the soot-choked halls, lay the Demon Soul: a fel-tainted artifact that could cow dragons. And deeper still, a relic infused with the quintessence of the five dragonflights. Power enough to reshape the skies.
Lost in the web of tactics, I rounded a shadowed corner—and collided hard with a whirlwind of silk and perfume.
"Oof!"
Whoa. That was not a wall. A soft, very curved form tumbled into my arms, and pure instinct took over. I caught her waist, steadying the fall, only to look down into the flushed face of Queen Taria Wrynn. Stormwind's exiled regent. Oh, Light. It's the Queen.
She was a vision of poised elegance: raven hair framing a face of quiet intellect, her curves a testament to matured grace. And my hands are full of them.
"Are you all right, Your Majesty?" I murmured, my hands definitely lingering a fraction too long on the warm, firm curve of her hip. Her scent—jasmine and aged parchment—flooded my senses. Smart and sexy. The deadliest combo. A flicker of very expected warmth stirred low in my gut. Gods, I'm a reincarnated lech in a prince suit. Control yourself, Arthas. This is Varian's mom. Varian's... very, very elegant... mom. She's exactly my type.
I saw her breath hitch, her emerald eyes widening as she eased from my grasp, smoothing her gown. A smart move. She was no fool. Crying out would just make a scene, painting her as the seductress trying to leverage a prince's favor. My star was rising too fast for smears to stick—the diligent heir who tended plague-fields and sparred with guards. The nobles whispered praise, not poison. Stormwind's ashes were no fault of mine.
"I'm quite well, Your Highness," she replied, her voice a velvet blade. "A momentary lapse—nothing more."
I stepped back, heat rising to my own face, though I masked it with a sheepish bow. "My apologies, truly. Woolgathering like a fool." My gaze dipped, unbidden, tracing the elegant lines of her form. Bad. Bad Arthas. Gods, I have a weakness for grace. Poised, mature strength. My aunt had schooled me in the value of such... assets. The memory of this morning alone was... grounding. Right. Focus.
Taria caught the linger of my stare, her lips thinning. "Think nothing of it. Good evening." She inclined her head and fled, pulse racing—or so I imagined.
I exhaled sharply, willing my thoughts to cool, and pressed on. The palace's labyrinthine halls led me to a moonlit alcove, where my sister, Calia Menethil, perched on a velvet chaise like a wilted rose. She was a masterpiece of royal grooming: golden curls cascading, her figure a symphony of inherited elegance—slender yet blooming with promise, her gown modest yet accentuating her poise. At twenty-one, two years my senior, she embodied the Light's grace as a fledgling priestess. But perfection was a gilded cage. Tonight, her sapphire eyes held a rare fracture: melancholy, raw and unguarded.
"Calia?" I softened my voice, crossing to her. I drew her into my arms without preamble, her lithe form folding against me. Her scent enveloped me—lavender and fresh linen, innocence laced with something sweeter, more perilous. She felt... solid. Womanly. Jaina was all coltish youth, but Calia... this was different. This was hips and curves and a quiet strength pressing against my chest. She was my mother's echo, and just as... distracting.
She shook her head against my shoulder, voice muffled. "It's nothing, Arthas. Truly."
But I knew better.
[System UI: Task Updated - Calia's Fate]
The ethereal prompt materialized in my mind's eye, crisp as frost-etched glass.
Task: As Lordaeron's jewel, marriage is your father's decree. King Terenas intends to bind her to Lord Prestor, a shadowy noble whose ambitions reek of smoke and deceit. Success means losing her forever—heart, hand, and throne.
Task Reward: Calia becomes your spouse. Proficiency in language unlocked.
My pulse didn't just quicken; it hammered. A thrill coiled low in my gut. Proficiency in language? Again? Whatever. Who cares. The system's gifts were always laced with temptation, but this? This sang to the shadows in my soul. Reborn from Earth, I felt no true kinship's pull. "Sister" was a label from a life I barely remembered. She was an ally. A beautiful, powerful, forbidden one. And practically? Her royal blood coursed with authority I craved; while I waged wars afar, she'd anchor the court, her Light-woven words swaying skeptical lords. This was a political masterstroke. And the perks...
I accepted without a flicker of doubt. The interface hummed its approval.
Calia pulled back slightly, her confession spilling forth. "Father... he spoke of betrothal. To this Lord Prestor—some enigmatic wretch from the south. I barely know the man, and yet..." Her voice cracked. "It's as if my life's script is etched in stone, unyielding."
I cupped her chin, tilting her gaze to mine. The system's subtle weave amplified me; I felt broader, more solid, an aura of confidence radiating like heat from a forge. I saw it register in her—the dilation of her pupils, the faint hitch in her breath.
"You won't marry him, Calia. I swear it on the Light itself." My voice was low, certain. "I need you—by my side, not some stranger's trophy." My thumb brushed her lower lip, my voice dropping to a gravel-wrapped murmur. "And... I like you. More than blood allows."
Her eyes widened, sapphire pools storming with shock. "Arthas... we're siblings. This—it's madness. Forbidden."
Her words said 'no,' but her body... her body was trembling. Was it fear? Or something else? I saw the flush creep from her throat to her cheeks. She was looking at me like she'd never seen me before. Heady. Dangerous.
I pressed on, my Earth-born pragmatism shattering Azeroth's taboos. "When I'm king, such chains shatter. Until then, I'll forge a path—shadows, schemes, whatever it takes. You cared for me in fevered nights, hoarding sweets like secrets. I remember every kindness, every laugh." I wove our shared past like a tapestry: stolen orchard apples, whispered ghost stories by hearthfire. "You're no pawn, Calia. You're mine to protect."
Tears glistened on her lashes, but not from sorrow. I could see the war in her, the fractured look of someone whose entire world was tilting. Propriety versus... this. This fire I'd just lit. She was terrified—of the whispers, the fall, the scandal. But beneath that, I saw... a flicker. A reluctant bloom. Her heart was racing; I could feel the thrum of it where her hand clutched my tunic.
Her hesitation was a fragile veil. Then, in a breath that trembled, she whispered, "Arthas... I feel it too. This pull—it's tearing me apart." Her fingers clutched my tunic, nails digging crescents. "But if we cross this line... it's on you. Make it work. Shield us from the storm. Prove we're more than ruin."
Done.
I nodded, fierce as a vow etched in dragonbone. "I will. You're mine, Calia—sister, ally, queen in waiting. Let me claim what's always been ours."
She melted into me then, her lips brushing my collarbone in silent surrender, the forbidden flame kindling brighter. In that shadowed corridor, empires teetered, and I tasted destiny's sharp, intoxicating edge. One aunt secured, one sister claimed. The path to power is looking... very enjoyable.