Cold shot through him, shivering up his arms, spreading over his body and into his heart. It was painful for a moment and he knew a hint of alarm, and then suddenly it was all right. It was all all right; Frostmourne was his and he was its, and its voice was speaking, whispering, caressing inside his mind as if it had always been there.
At one point, looking for his next enemy, he caught sight of Falric staring at him. There was awe on the familiar face, but also shock and—horror? Only at the carnage he was wreaking, surely.
The snowstorm was becoming worse. He realized with dawning surprise that he was not at all cold.
Moved by the image, he caught one of the red petals in a gloved hand. He thumbed it thoughtfully, and then frowned as a stain appeared. It grew before his eyes, desiccating and destroying the petal, until it was more brown than red in his palm.
He lifted a hand and drew back the hood from his face, watching for his father’s reaction. Terenas’s eyes widened as he took in the change that had come over his only son. Arthas’s hair, once golden as the wheat that had given sustenance to his people, was now bone- white. He knew his face was pale as well, as if the blood had been drained from it.
He would leave that to his captains, Falric and Marwyn, as bone- white as he and twice as merciless.