Crimson eyes, red as spilled pomegranate wine, gleamed with a thick, honeyed allure.

But the moment I looked deeper, the velvet lure frayed, and a chill blade of death flashed beneath.

So this is what it means to be shackled by death forever, a shadow that clings like winter frost.

I let those blood-bright pupils drift from my gaze and fixed on Arthas’s face, pale as moonlit porcelain.

The face had a child’s soft roundness, yet the pallor was excessive, like snow that never melts.

Others at least carry a faint blush, a spark of living blood, a dawn stain under the skin.

Arthas’s complexion was corpse-white, like wax in a temple, unhealthy at a glance to any passerby.

Paleness alone isn’t rare; the world is wide, and illness paints many faces the color of paper.

Red irises aren’t unheard of either, like embers under ash; what snagged me was Arthas’s “silver hair.”

No—calling it silver would be a lie; true silver shines like frost under starlight, clean and sublime.

People everywhere nurse a strange craze for silver hair, a hunger like moths drawn to a cold moon.

But the hair before me refused that name; it lay chalk-white, closer to an elder’s winter ash.

It felt robbed of life, like grass after a drought; even shampoo could not coax back its gloss.

The length reached her waist, a pale river on stone, yet no hand would rise to stroke that flow.

Even a glance suggested roughness, like rope burn or dry bark, a texture that rasped the mind.

And those lifeless strands looked brittle, twig-weak; bend them lightly, and they might snap like winter twigs.

For the hair-obsessed, this was a red flag waving in a cold wind, enough to turn them away.

Even so, Arthas’s flaws could not eclipse the fact: she was a beautiful girl, a blade wrapped in silk.

Fine features and blood-red eyes formed a perfect mask, turning flaws into edge, thorns into adornment.

Beauty really lets you get away with anything, a passport stamped by springlight and shadow.

Ling stared, disbelieving, at the girl hands on hips, defiant as a cat on a wall.

Yeah… a girl, clear as a silver bell in morning fog.

“Wumiao King…?” Ling breathed, the word a feather tossed into a still pond.

The girl’s eyes flicked, surprised, like a sparrow startled from a branch.

“Mm, that’s me. How’d you know I’m the Wumiao King? You called me the Lich King earlier.”

She seemed annoyed about being tagged “Lich King,” a small thorn she’d kept under her tongue.

“No… no! You’re a girl?!”

“Why can’t I be?”

“What about Ner’zhul?”

“I ate him.”

“You ate—what?!” Ling raised a palm for a timeout, needing air like a swimmer breaking the surface.

So the Lich King had become the Wumiao King, a title purring like a cat on warm tiles.

Arthas-kun was now Arthas-chan, a winter blade in lace. Ner’zhul got eaten… fine, whatever.

“Ling, what’s with you?” Alicia stepped in, calm as a lake at dusk. “You’re rambling. I don’t follow.”

Ling just pointed at Arthas, her finger trembling like a reed in wind, stammering “he, she, she…”

Alicia rubbed her brow in silence, as if the machine named Ling had glitched, a spring wound too tight.

“Let’s set the little one aside,” Alicia said, voice steady as rain. “Arthas—sir… no, miss? Which fits?”

Arthas straightened in a way no death knight should, palm thumping iron plate—clang, clang, clang.

“Miss, of course!”

“Alright, Miss Arthas. I’m curious—why does your body feel… dead, like a room without air?”

Arthas tilted her head, airheaded and adorable, like a crane pondering its reflection in a stream.

“Does that question have anything to do with me going topside?”

She really wanted the surface, that much shone; even now she chased it like a moth seeking a lamp.

“Strictly speaking… no. If you’d rather not—”

“If I answer, do we head up right away?”

Alicia met that impatient gaze, pupils glittering like starlets in wine, and her questions fell quiet.

“Mm. I promise. Answer, and I’ll take you up.”

“Then we’re good.” Arthas smiled, quick as a match struck. “I’m a death knight; that’s not news.”

“As a death knight, death walks with me like my shadow; it won’t leave my body, not ever.”

“So don’t be fooled by how young I look; every inch of me has gone still, like a winter lake.”

“Calling me living would be the lie, a spring mask on autumn bones.”

She said it lightly, helm off and heart open, dropping a heavy secret like a pebble into a well.

“Besides, what’s a death-body?” Her tone turned breezy, a wind over grass. “I saw a bald guy once.”

“He smeared white powder, drew red lines on skin; that look was the real oddity, like a festival mask.”

Alicia didn’t know who she meant; she offered a small, awkward smile, a lantern in fog to save face.

Luckily, the girl wasn’t keen to chat forever; her goal stood ahead like a sunlit gate.

She reached out both hands and clasped Alicia’s, seeking warmth like a sparrow seeking a sleeve.

Because of the height gap, Arthas had to tilt up, her eyes hopeful as stars in a winter sky.

“So, can we go?”