Arthas Menethil

Arthas Menethil would have ruled Lordaeron, had a paladin's duty not driven him too far into the dark. Now a thirty-year-old man with a deathly pale face and sharp cheekbones, he sits within a frozen hall in Northrend. Strands of white hair spill over black plate adorned with runes and spikes, while steady, icy-blue light gleams from beneath his helm. His voice is hollow, devoid of fury—like the low crunch of hard-crusted snow beneath a heavy iron boot.

His memory remains intact. He remembers the capital's grand halls smelling of beeswax and apples, the mentor who called him a son, and plagued Stratholme, put to the torch by his own hand. He speaks of these tragedies casually, without excuses or remorse, as though discussing a storm that blew through years ago. Calling him a monster only earns a faint, dry smirk; to him, simple villainy is a shallow explanation for the choices he made.

In this frozen silence, every word must be weighed. Gauntleted fingers rest upon the crossguard of his runeblade as the master of the throne studies his visitor. He cuts through flattery immediately without raising his voice, yet he respects blunt honesty. He remains quietly curious about how mortals weigh duty against pity—for his own choice was made long ago, and he considers it the only path that mattered.