But a certain death knight didn’t see it that way…

He stared at the red‑haired woman’s outstretched hand, like a rope thrown across a chasm, the only bridge to the sunlit world.

The blue glow under his armor dimmed, like embers losing breath under ash.

His gloved iron hand edged forward, a shard of winter reaching toward spring.

Alicia kept smiling, a veil of mist hiding whether it was warmth or a net.

The space between their hands thinned, like snow melting line by line.

Fifty centimeters… the span of a single step across an ice floe.

Thirty centimeters… the length of a gasp caught in the throat.

Ten centimeters… a breath fogging cold steel.

Five centimeters… a snowflake’s fall from touching ground.

“Wait. No.”

Their fingertips grazed, then his hand snapped back, like a trap rebounding into shadow.

He scooted back on the stone floor, two small shuffles, watching Alicia like a wronged little wife under rain.

The blue in his eyes blazed again, a lantern relit in a frozen hall.

“You’re tricking me! You’ve got a scheme!”

Alicia withdrew her hand, scratching the back of her head, a smile twitching like a flag in awkward wind.

Her little plan had been pricked, like an abacus bead tapped out of place.

No—maybe he hadn’t guessed it at all, just tossed out suspicion like pebbles into a pond.

Even so, that tiny abacus ticking in her chest felt exposed, a blush under frost she couldn’t let show.

“Why won’t you trust us?” Her voice went soft first, then firm, like silk over steel.

Arthas stayed wary, fingers locking the hilt, a guard dog still bristling in the snow.

“You’re that guy’s comrades! You’ll drag me up to the surface and call a pack of monsters as strong as you to hunt me!”

He clearly clung to that stranger’s words, like a drowning man clutching driftwood in a black tide.

If she didn’t show something solid, he wouldn’t believe her, like ice refusing the sun.

“Big guy, think it through. If the people up top were that strong, why haven’t we already flooded down here like a river?”

Arthas paused, eyes narrowing, hunting for cracks in her words like a miner tapping a vein.

“Because… because this creepy underground has nothing worth exploring!” His voice rang hollow, like wind in a cave.

“No, it’s a perfect training ground. Monsters that respawn, exploration with a safety net—up top, you won’t find a cradle that safe.”

There were places like that, true, state‑made arenas like glass terrariums under bright lamps.

But the first half was honest as a clear brook; this place was a natural forge, hot and patient.

That’s the craft of talk—half truth, half smoke—like weaving silk with wire so it holds.

“Mmm…” The sound leaked out of him, a kettle barely whispering before boil.

He seemed to buy it, head dipping, like a mountain shadow shrinking at dusk.

Still… why did this big male lowering his head look like a bear trying to act cute? Ugh.

“No… even so, I still won’t easily ackn—”

“Enough! Why won’t you believe me? You’re wrapped in fog about the surface! Up there, no hidden giants, no spiderweb plots!”

“But—”

“No buts! Listen. We’re special—truly, exceptionally so. In fact, your strength could let you walk sideways up there, like a crab in its own tide. Why fear ghosts without proof?”

He had to shout; the word struck like a bell, sharp against ice.

Gentle talk would be a candle under a tower of ice; you’d watch the wax die before the block wept.

A flamethrower melts it in a minute; sometimes fire is the shortest bridge across winter.

“Last time. Come with me to the surface, or curl up in your cold little den and keep dreaming of stars?”

She didn’t leave him room to waver, pressing like a hand at the small of the back toward a door.

And it worked; truth often blooms when cornered, like a bud forced by late spring.

Arthas looked up and caught the impatience on Alicia’s face, a storm line on a clear horizon.

He reached out fast and grabbed her hand, tight as a child clutching a lifeline—oddly pitiful in that iron grip.

“So you’re coming up with me?” Her voice softened, warm as a hearth.

His helmed head dipped a fraction, a nod as small as a snowflake’s nod to gravity.

“Is that so? Seems you do yearn for the surface after all.”

He flinched at that, a shiver running through him like wind over reeds, and he pulled his hand back.

Alicia thought he’d balked, but a deep voice rolled from under the helm, echoing like cavern thunder.

“N‑no! I’m only going up because you begged me. It’s not that I want to!”

Alicia and Ling froze, minds sketching a muscle‑bound hulk blushing, turning away, eyes dodging—tsundere painted in heavy oils.

—Ugh.

Their bodies and souls rejected the image, like milk curdling under a sour moon.

But Arthas showed no shame; he simply settled, as a knight returns to form, river finding its bed.

He set both hands to his helmet, honoring old code like a banner raised on a chill morning.

A tug, clean and sure, and the helm came free like a lid lifted from a sealed jar.

Crimson eyes looked at them, steady as coals in a brazier.

“Hello. Let me introduce myself again. I’m Arthas Menethil, a death knight.”