May the bloodied crown stay lost and forgotten.

Trust is your weakness...

It's too damn cold up here. The stale, dry cold inside is one thing - except where it gives way to the wet, chewing cold of Putricide's lab, or the vein-searing cold of the San'layn's lair. Here, the wind blows from all around, and all life and warmth is drawn into that throne like souls into the Nether. Have you never seen that vortex? I dare not look up when I dream; it fills every sky my mind can imagine. Ten of us, plus Fordring, stand before the throne of ice, which could be carved from the blackness of that dread maelstrom in the sky.

Verisimi frets. Her hands fold like they want to pet her rabbit, but of course Bun can't be here. He'd freeze to death.

Elrin grins. He hasn't slept. He hasn't eaten. Did he really bring himself back to life? What human could exist with such obsession, leaving behind so much of what makes people themselves?

Triktaal and Daryna seem unchanged, but who can read Draenei anyhow? Their thoughts are their own, with only resolve and the Light on the surface.

Minna gives me a kiss, and I touch my cheek. Is this warmth real? The air steals it so soon, I can't be sure.

Tavlo looks longingly to the southeast. I think there's somewhere she'd rather be, if we didn't have this fight to win.

Nuadhu is out of place here. The nearest soil is miles down, and even there it's frozen solid. Leaves and small branches freeze and break and blow away in the wind. I'm surprised the elder is still with us.

The warlock's face is shadowed by his hood. I'll bet he's smiling under there. Crazy git. He's always smiling.

Beisel is Verisimi's inverse. The stoic dwarf, instead of the motherly worrier. The shadow's vengeance instead of the light's discipline.

I lift my sword and shield when Tirion steps forward to confront the Lich King, ice cracking and shattering off my armor's joints. I'm just cold. Too cold to feel anything else.

Hope is an illusion...

The ashbringer is frozen solid with a gesture. Not a good start.

Cracks and vents appear in the platform, releasing ghouls and horrors which crawl up and grab at Veri, Trik, and Nua - but they're Elrin's problem. He cuts into them wildly, nourished by the violence itself.

With Tirion gone, I'm the line. Frostmourne slices the horns off the face on my shield, then locks with my blade, pushing me down. He laughs, a voice without body or soul, "Hope wanes!"

"Heard... that... before..." I grit out, forcing myself to my feet. The Light flows through me, and a hint of warmth on the wind is just enough to give me strength. I push Frostmourne back, then cut across the Lich King's body. My blade strikes sparks, and the sound evokes the howl of damned souls. Then he roars. Shadows burst forth, rushing into my nose and mouth and ears, filling me with pain. I spit blood on his boot, still holding his blade. "I've had worse."

I duck down, pinning his knee with my blade and shielding my neck with my shield, while Minna drives daggers deep up under his armor, and volleys of gunfire, lightning, and shadows returned in even measure crash into him above my head. That terrible howl sounds again, and we all dive for cover as the cold wind of death bursts forth from the Lich King's body.

All that you know will fade...

I stop my own blade a hair's breadth from Minna's throat. Is it my blade, or a cruel imitation? I can't tell if I'm being controlled, or fighting a copy. The stars whirl above my head as I trade blows with this image, and the next - and then it's my friends, the other Scions trying to kill each other. I have to stop them, I can't let this happen again... are those stars? Am I surrounded by pillars of frost, or gold and stone? Each time the spirits shriek, it is His voice I hear. As the world crumbles around me, I rush the figure at its center, the pretender King.

He bellows, "Face now your tragic end!"

"Give it up! I know who you are!" I growl, "I'm tired of you in my head, and definitely tired of stopping your blows with my face."

He will learn...

Through clouds of death, the deceptive embrace of the Val'kyr (I know who they really serve!)... despite frost and blade... He falls. The shadow of that terrible King falls from the corpse as the helmet rolls away. Arthas Menethil lies supine before us, the shattered remnants of Frostmourne beside him. He stares as the ghost of Terenas Menethil materializes over him, and the characteristic blue glow dissipates from his eyes. As Terenas kneels next to him, Arthas places a hand on his father's chest.

Arthas coughs and says, "Father! Is it... over?"

Terenas lays a comforting hand on Arthas' gauntlet. "At long last. No king rules forever, my son."

I mouth the words to myself, "Lying spectre... I have seen your true face."

No king rules forever; only death is eternal!

I miss what happens next. While the others clean up, tend wounds... I'm back in the depths. Did I ever get out, I wonder? I'm standing by the teleporter, and it's broken, no light within it but faltering sparks. Sara stands across the clouded room, and it's just the two of us. She says nothing, yet I hear her call.

There is no escape... not in this life... not in the next...

"Amara," Minna says, and kisses me. "Let's get married."

Slowly I look away from Sara, and see my lover, my fiancee. I put my hands on her hips, and return the kiss, and I feel the cold wind - but it seems warmer now. I smile. "Pick a day."

The mountains in the distance loom, still almost trembling with the power of the dead god beneath them. Today, though... we won.