Chapter Text
The first sensation was wrong.
Everything was wrong, utterly wrong in ways that defied the natural order of things. Ikit Claw— Chief Warlock Engineer of Clan Skryre, Master of the Warpstone Forges, Terror of the Under-Empire— did not wake gently. He woke with the sudden, violent clarity of a ratling gun misfiring, his consciousness snapping into focus like a badly calibrated warp-lightning accumulator finally achieving proper conductance.
But the body he woke in was not his own.
'No-no-no-no-NO.'
The thought screamed through his mind as his eyes—wrong eyes, too large, too forward-facing—shot open to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling. Not the cramped, soot-stained metal rafters of his workshop. Not the comfortable claustrophobia of proper Skaven warrens. This ceiling was high. Vaulted. Made of worked stone with elegant arches that spoke of craftsmanship rather than the glorious expediency of Skaven engineering.
Ikit tried to move, and his body responded—but it was the wrong shape entirely. Too small. Too… smooth. He held up his hands—his hands, but NOT his hands—and stared at them with mounting horror.
Five fingers. Not four clawed digits. Five human fingers, small and soft and utterly devoid of the reassuring patina of chemical burns and metal stains that marked any proper engineer. The skin was pale, unmarked, clean in a way that made his stolen stomach turn. No fur. No comforting layer of protective hair. Just bare, vulnerable skin that looked like it had never known a day of real labor.
"No," he whispered, and even his voice was wrong. High. Clear. The voice of a human child.
Panic, true panic, seized him. Ikit Claw had faced dwarven cannons, elven magic, and the explosive failures of his own most volatile experiments. He had stared into the green glow of raw warpstone and laughed as it burned his flesh and expanded his mind. But this? This was different. This was impossible.
He sat up—the movement felt strange, his center of balance all wrong, his body too light, too frail— and looked around the room with mounting dread.
It was a bedchamber. A prince's bedchamber, his terrified mind supplied, drawing on knowledge he shouldn't possess. Rich tapestries hung on the walls depicting lions and eagles. A large window let in morning sunlight—sunlight, curse it all, actual unfiltered surface-world sunlight—that painted everything in warm golden tones. The bed he sat in was massive, piled with soft blankets and pillows that smelled of lavender and cedar.
Everything was clean. Everything was orderly. Everything was absolutely, completely, horrifyingly wrong.
"This is not-not possible," Ikit muttered, his new voice cracking. "I was in my workshop. Was preparing the new warp-lightning cannon, yes-yes. The prototype with triple capacitors. Was going to show those fool-fools in Clan Moulder that technology is superior to their meat-things…"
He trailed off as memories crashed into his mind like a misfiring doomwheel. Two sets of memories, competing for dominance. One set was his—Ikit Claw, centuries of glorious engineering, countless tri‐ umphs and explosions (mostly controlled), the eternal struggle for dominance within Clan Skryre and recognition from the Council of Thirteen.
The other set was… someone else's. Softer memories. Sunlight and laughter. A kind voice reading stories. The clash of training swords in a courtyard. The smell of his mother's perfume. The weight of a wooden toy horse in small hands.
'Arthas.' The name rose unbidden. Arthas Menethil, Prince of Lordaeron.
"No-no-no," Ikit hissed, pressing his too-small, too-soft hands against his temples. "Not possible. Some trick-trick. Illusion magic from elf-things. Or dwarf-thing rune-work. Or—" The horrible thought struck him. "Clan Eshin? Assassins use poison-drugs that make mind see false-things…"
But even as he grasped for rational explanations, he knew the truth with a certainty that transcended logic. This was no illusion. No poison dream. He was here. Really here. In this body. In this world.
The implications cascaded through his brilliant, paranoid mind.
He was in a human body. A child human body, no less. He had no tools. No workshop. No warpstone. No weapons. No allies—only enemies, because all humans were enemies to Skaven, and besides, Ikit didn't even trust other Skaven, so why would he trust anyone here? He didn't know where his real body was. Didn't know how this happened. Didn't know if he could get back. Didn't know if there was a back to get to.
The panic threatened to overwhelm him, but Ikit Claw had not become Chief Warlock Engineer by succumbing to fear. Fear was useful. Fear kept you alert, kept you alive, kept you checking your escape tunnels and testing your food for poison. But panic? Panic was what happened to failed engineers when their creations exploded prematurely.
He forced himself to breathe slowly—the lungs in this body were irritatingly small but seemed functional enough—and think.
'First priority: Gather information. Cannot plan without knowing the situation, yes-yes. Second priority: Maintain cover. If in enemy territory, must not reveal true nature.'
'Third priority: Find resources. Tools. Materials. Something to work with.'
'Fourth priority: Determine cause of this… transference. Cannot solve problem without understanding it.'
'Fifth priority: Find a way back.'
He climbed out of the bed, his new body moving with unfamiliar coordination. The floor was cold stone beneath his bare feet—no claws, no proper paw-pads, just flat man-thing feet—and he had to suppress a shudder of revulsion at the sensation.
There was a mirror across the room, a proper glass mirror rather than the polished metal or warpstone surfaces Skaven used. Ikit approached it with dread, knowing what he would see but needing to confirm it nonetheless.
The face that looked back at him was young. Perhaps nine or ten human years, if he was judging correctly. Blonde hair, neatly trimmed. Sea green eyes, clear and wide and innocent in a way that made something in Ikit's borrowed chest ache. A face that had never known hunger or fear or the desperate struggle for survival that defined life in the Under-Empire.
"Arthas Menethil," he whispered to his reflection, and watched those too-green eyes widen. "Prince of Lordaeron."
More memories bubbled up. This was a kingdom. A surface kingdom, sprawling and prosperous. This boy—this body he wore—was its heir. Son of King Terenas Menethil II. Brother to Calia. Student of… the memories were fuzzy on recent events, as if the original consciousness had been fragmentary, dream-like.
A knock at the door made him jump, his heart—this treacherous human heart—racing.
"Arthas?" A female voice, young but older than his current body. "Arthas, are you awake? Mother said I should check on you. You seemed unwell last night."
'Sister,' his borrowed memories supplied. 'Calia. Older by several years. Kind. Protective. Observant.'
That last trait was the dangerous one.
Ikit's mind raced. He needed to respond. Needed to act normal. But what was normal for a human princeling? The memories were there, but accessing them was like trying to read blueprints that kept shifting and changing. He grasped at fragments. Arthas was… cheerful. Energetic. Loved his family. Respected his father. Looked up to his sister.
Simple. He could fake simple. It was pretending to be complex that would be difficult.
"I… yes," he called out, then winced at how uncertain his voice sounded. He tried again, forcing more confidence into his tone. "Yes-yes—I mean, yes. I'm awake."
'Fool-fool! Don't speak like proper Skaven. Man-things don't double their words. Must remember. Must adapt.'
The door opened, and a teenage girl entered. She was perhaps twelve or eleven humanyears, with the same blonde hair as his borrowed body, styled elegantly. She wore a dress of green and white and her face bore an expression of concern that looked genuine. Ikit mistrusted it immediately. All kindness was suspect. All concern hid ulterior motives. But he forced what he hoped was a smile onto his face.
"Good morning, Calia," he said carefully, pulling the name from those borrowed memories. The words felt strange in his mouth, but he thought he'd managed the right tone. Affectionate but not overly so. The relationship between these siblings seemed warm but not cloying.
Calia's expression shifted subtly—concern deepening slightly. "You sound strange, little brother. Are you sure you're feeling well? You barely touched your dinner last night, and you went to bed so early."
'Trap-trap', his paranoid mind screamed. Testing. Probing for weakness. Must redirect.
"Bad dreams," he said, which had the virtue of being somewhat true. "Felt… confused when I woke. But better now, yes-yes. I mean, yes. Better now."
'Stop doubling words, fool-meat!'
Calia moved closer, and Ikit had to fight the urge to back away. Skaven didn't do well with close contact—too much opportunity for backstabbing, poison-pricks, or throat-tearing. But humans seemed to be different. These memories showed frequent physical affection. Hugs. Pats on the shoulder. Hand- holding.
Disgusting, really. But he would have to adapt.
She reached out and placed a hand on his forehead, checking for fever. The touch was gentle, warm, and Ikit nearly flinched away before controlling himself. Her hand was soft, uncallused—a noble's hand, not a warrior's or worker's.
"You don't feel warm," she said, her brow furrowing. "But you're acting very oddly. Are you sure it was just dreams?"
"Very sure," Ikit said quickly. Too quickly? He tried to soften it with another smile. "Strange dreams. About… rats. Big rats. With machines."
'Why had he said that? Fool-fool Ikit! But perhaps it could work. Whelps had nonsensical dreams, didn't they?'
Calia's expression shifted to something almost amused. "Rats with machines? That does sound like a strange dream. Perhaps you've been spending too much time listening to old Uther's war stories. He did mention fighting gnolls with scavenged equipment recently."
'Uther.' The name triggered memories. A knight in service of the Light. Someone important to Arthas's training. Someone who would be dangerous if he suspected anything was wrong.
"Perhaps," Ikit agreed, relieved to have an excuse. "Yes. That must be it. Just… strange dreams from stories."
Calia studied him for a long moment, and Ikit forced himself to meet her gaze without flinching. It was harder than he expected. Those eyes were too knowing, too observant. But finally, she seemed to accept his explanation.
"Well, you should get dressed," she said, moving toward the wardrobe. "Breakfast will be served soon, and you know Father doesn't like it when we're late. Mother wanted to make sure you were well enough to join us, but if you're feeling better…"
"I'm well," Ikit said quickly. The thought of meeting more people, of maintaining this deception in front of the king and queen, terrified him. But refusing would raise more suspicion. Besides, he needed information, and what better place to gather it than at the family table?
Calia pulled out clothes from the wardrobe—fine garments, well-made, in whites and blues. "Do you need help dressing, or can you manage?"
'Help?' Ikit's pride bristled. He had assembled warp-lightning cannons blindfolded (admittedly as part of a bet, and admittedly it had exploded, but that was beside the point). He could certainly figure out human clothing.
"I can manage," he said, perhaps more sharply than intended.
Calia raised an eyebrow at his tone but didn't comment. "Alright. I'll wait outside then. Don't take too long, or Mother will send the servants to check on you."
She left, closing the door behind her, and Ikit let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
'First test: Passed. Barely.'
He turned his attention to the clothing Calia had laid out. It was… complicated. Humans seemed to wear far more layers than made any sense. Under-clothes, outer-clothes, and what purpose did half of these serve? Skaven wore robes because they were practical—kept you covered, had pockets for tools and weapons, didn't restrict movement.
This ensemble looked like it was designed by someone who had never needed to run from an explosion in their life.
Still, he managed. The borrowed memories helped, muscle memory guiding his hands even when his mind wasn't sure what went where. Undergarments, a white shirt, a blue tunic with silver embroidery, pants, boots. Each layer felt like another cage being built around him.
By the time he finished, he looked like… well, like a prince. He checked his reflection again and saw Arthas Menethil staring back at him, properly dressed and presentable.
But behind those green eyes, Ikit Claw was screaming.
The walk to the dining hall was an exercise in controlled paranoia.
Calia led the way, chatting pleasantly about nothing in particular—something about lessons she'd had yesterday, a book she was reading, plans for the garden. Ikit made what he hoped were appropriate noises of acknowledgment, but mostly he was focused on cataloging his surroundings.
The palace was vast. Unnecessarily so. The corridors were wide enough to march armies through (inefficient, harder to defend, obvious weakness). The ceilings were high and vaulted (wasted space, though he supposed humans didn't need to worry about digging up as Skaven did). Windows everywhere let in natural light (security nightmare; any competent infiltrator could use those).
But it was also, he had to admit with a small part of his mind that still appreciated engineering, beautifully made. The stonework was precise. The arches were mathematically elegant. The load-bearing structures were well-designed and properly supported. It offended him that it wasn't covered in soot and warpstone glow, but from a purely technical standpoint… It was good work.
They passed servants who bowed respectfully. Guards in polished armor who nodded. Everyone seemed to genuinely care about the young prince's well-being, asking if he was feeling better and glad to see him up and about.
'More traps, obviously.' No one was genuinely kind without wanting something. But Ikit kept the smile on his face and gave appropriate responses, drawing on those borrowed memories for guidance.
Finally, they reached a set of ornate doors that opened into a private dining room. Smaller than the great hall where formal feasts would be held, this was clearly for family meals. A table of polished wood. Windows overlooking gardens. Tapestries on the walls depicting what Ikit's memories identified as various Menethil ancestors. Ikit's eyes drifted instinctively to the windows and the heavy curtains, his mind already calculating which tapestries could hide a vent or which door was least likely to be barred from the outside if he needed to bolt.
And seated at the table were two people who made Ikit's stolen heart skip a beat.
King Terenas Menethil II sat at the head of the table. He was a large man, not yet old but no longer young, with brown hair graying at the temples and a beard neatly trimmed. He wore fine clothes but not overly formal—this was family time, not court. His eyes were sharp, intelligent, and assessing. The eyes of a ruler who had maintained peace and prosperity for decades.
'Dangerous,' Ikit's mind cataloged immediately. 'Very dangerous. Not a warrior, but a strategist. A planner. Someone who would notice inconsistencies.'
Next to him sat Queen Lianne, and if the king was dangerous, the queen was perhaps more so in a different way. She was beautiful in the way human women were considered beautiful—graceful, poised, with kind eyes that nonetheless seemed to see straight through pretense. Her smile as she saw Ikit enter was warm and genuine and absolutely terrifying in its sincerity.
"Arthas!" she said, rising from her seat. "Calia said you weren't feeling well. Come here, let me look at you."
'Retreat,' Ikit's instincts screamed. 'Flee. Escape. Too many unknowns. Too much danger.'
But he was trapped. Fleeing would reveal everything. So he forced his feet to move forward, to approach the queen, to allow her to take his face in her hands and study him with those knowing eyes.
"You're pale," she said softly. "But your color is coming back. How do you feel?"
"Better, Mother," Ikit said, and the word felt strange on his tongue. Mother. He had never known his mother—Skaven didn't work that way. You were born in the breeding pits, and if you survived your first few months, you might make it to apprenticeship. Family was a human concept, weak and sentimental.
But the word came easily, drawn from those borrowed memories. And worse, some treacherous part of his borrowed heart warmed at the concern in her eyes.
'Weakness, he told himself firmly. Emotion is weakness. Must not fall into trap of sentiment.'
"I'm glad," Lianne said, kissing his forehead. "You had us worried. Come, sit. Eat. You need to rebuild your strength."
She guided him to his seat—between Calia and the queen, across from the king. Trapped between them, unable to escape. Ikit tried not to think of it as a perfect ambush position and mostly failed.
Servants brought food. Simple fare by feast standards, but still far more elaborate than Skaven rations. Fresh bread, still warm. Butter and jam. Eggs cooked in ways Ikit's memories suggested but his skaven mind found bizarre. Strips of salted meat. Fresh fruit.
'No warpstone. No fungus-bread. No meat of questionable origin. It smelled… good. Disturbingly good.'
Ikit's stomach growled, reminding him that this body needed fuel regardless of his mental state. He picked up a fork—using utensils was another strange human custom, but the memories guided him— and began to eat.
The first bite of warm bread with butter was revelatory. Not because it was anything like Skaven cuisine, but precisely because it wasn't. It was fresh. Clean. Rich without being overwhelming. His borrowed body seemed to know this taste, to have been expecting it, and the familiarity was almost painful.
"See? I told you he was feeling better," Calia said brightly. "He was just having bad dreams. Something about rats with machines."
King Terenas chuckled at that. "Rats with machines? That's quite an imagination you have, my son. Perhaps we should have the castle rat-catchers check the palace more thoroughly if they're invading your dreams."
'Don't react. Don't react. It's a joke. Man-things make jokes. You can handle jokes.'
Ikit forced what he hoped was a sheepish smile. "It was very silly. I probably won't even remember most of it in a day or so."
"Dreams often fade," the king said, his eyes studying Ikit in a way that made the Skaven engineer want to squirm. "But you do seem different this morning, Arthas. Quieter. More… reserved."
'Danger. Danger. He notices. Must deflect.'
"The dream felt very real," Ikit said carefully. "Made me think about… strange things. Different ways of seeing the world."
It was perhaps the most honest thing he'd said since waking, and it seemed to work. The king nodded thoughtfully.
"Dreams can do that," he said. "They show us aspects of ourselves we don't always acknowledge when awake. Tell me, what did these rats with machines do?"
'Why was he asking? What was the purpose? Was this a test?'
Ikit's mind raced through possibilities, but he forced himself to answer. If he hesitated too long, it would raise more suspicion.
"They… built things," he said slowly. "In the dream. Complicated things. Machines that sparked with… lightning. And…" He trailed off, realizing he was perhaps revealing too much of himself.
But King Terenas looked intrigued rather than suspicious. "A dream about invention and creation. Interesting. You've been spending time with the blacksmith, haven't you? Watching the craftsmen work?"
'Had he?' Ikit searched the borrowed memories. Yes. Arthas had been fascinated by the process of making things, watching the smiths forge weapons, the carpenters build furniture, the masons work stone. A squeaker's curiosity about how things worked.
Not so different from Ikit's own interests, really. Just… cleaner. Less explosive.
"Yes," Ikit confirmed. "I like watching them work. How they take raw materials and make something… functional."
"Functional," the king repeated, and something in his tone made Ikit look up sharply. "That's an interesting word choice. Not beautiful, or impressive, or mighty. Functional."
'Wrong. That was wrong. A whelp wouldn't think in terms of pure function. Must correct.'
"And beautiful," Ikit added quickly. "The smith made a new sword last week. It was… beautiful. The way the metal gleamed. The balance of it."
That seemed to satisfy the king, whose expression softened. "Ah, yes. Master Brom's work. He is indeed a skilled craftsman. Perhaps when you're older, if you're still interested, we could arrange for you to learn more formally. A king should understand the work that goes into equipping his armies."
"I would like that," Ikit said, and realized it was true. The thought of having access to a proper forge, to materials and tools, even if they weren't Skaven-made… his mind was already cataloging possibilities.
Queen Lianne smiled. "See? He's sounding more like himself already. I think it was just a passing illness. Children recover so quickly."
"Mother," Calia said, her tone carefully casual, "Arthas has been saying 'yes' strangely this morning. Like… twice. 'Yes-yes.' Is that something people do when they're not feeling well?"
Ikit froze, fork halfway to his mouth.
'She noticed. She noticed, and now she's reporting it. Threat. Possible threat.'
But Lianne just laughed softly. "Perhaps he heard it from one of the merchants at the market. You know how children pick up odd mannerisms. Remember when you went through that phase of saying 'indeed' after everything?"
Calia blushed. "I was eight. And I'd been reading too many philosophy books."
"And I'm sure Arthas will outgrow his new habit just as quickly," the queen said warmly. "Won't you, dear?"
She was looking at him expectantly. They were all looking at him. Waiting for him to confirm, to agree, to promise to stop revealing himself through linguistic patterns developed over centuries of being Skaven.
"Yes," Ikit said clearly, firmly, with only one repetition. "I'll be more careful how I speak."
'Too formal. That was too formal. A man-thing whelp would just say 'yes, Mother' or 'I didn't mean to' or something simpler.'
But the moment passed. Terenas nodded approvingly. Lianne smiled. Calia seemed satisfied. And breakfast continued.
They talked about the day's plans. Calia had lessons with her tutors. The king had court matters to at‐ tend to—some issues with trade routes, preparations for receiving refugees from the south. That last bit caught Ikit's attention.
"Refugees?" he asked, perhaps too eagerly. Information was vital.
Terenas nodded gravely. "From Stormwind. The kingdom has fallen to the Horde—orcish invaders from another world. King Llane is dead. Many have fled north, and they'll be arriving in Lordaeron soon. We'll be providing aid and shelter."
'Orcs. Horde. Another world.'
The information cascaded through Ikit's mind. This world had multiple kingdoms. It had invasions from other dimensions. It had magic—the Light, these memories called it, something priests wielded. It had conflicts and wars and opportunities.
And it had orcs. Not Orcs like the greenskins of his old world, apparently, but close enough. Another species. Possibly useful. Possibly threatening. Definitely interesting.
"Are they dangerous?" Ikit asked. "The orcs?"
"Very," Terenas said seriously. "Which is why Lordaeron is strengthening its defenses and training more soldiers. But that's not something you need to worry about, my son. We'll keep you safe."
'Safe.' The word was almost laughable. Ikit had never been safe in his life. Safety was an illusion. Survival required constant vigilance, constant innovation, constant paranoia.
But he nodded dutifully. "Yes, Father."
The meal continued. Servants cleared plates and brought more food. The conversation drifted to lighter topics—Calia's birthday coming up, plans for a hunt in the autumn, minor court gossip that meant nothing to Ikit but which he pretended to follow.
And through it all, he watched and learned.
He learned that King Terenas was respected by his people, genuinely so. That Queen Lianne was involved in charitable works, visiting the sick and supporting the poor. That Calia was bright and educated, expected to make a strong political marriage someday. That Arthas—the real Arthas, the one whose body Ikit now wore—had been a happy child. Loved. Protected. Expected to grow into a great king someday.
All of it was so foreign to everything Ikit knew. There was no constant backstabbing. No poisoning of rivals. No need to check your equipment for sabotage before each use. Just… family. Security. Love.
It was disturbing. It was alien. And some traitorous part of Ikit's borrowed heart found it almost… appealing.
'No,' he told himself firmly. 'Weakness. This is all weakness. Cannot let guard down. Must find way back to proper world. To proper body. To proper life of glorious engineering and controlled explosions.'
But even as he thought it, doubt crept in. What if there was no way back? What if this was permanent? What if Ikit Claw, Chief Warlock Engineer, was gone, and all that remained was Arthas Menethil, child prince of a human kingdom?
What then?
The question haunted him as breakfast ended. As Calia excused herself to her lessons. As Queen Lianne kissed his forehead again and told him to rest if he still felt unwell. As King Terenas gave him one last, searching look before leaving for his duties.
Ikit was left standing in the dining hall, surrounded by servants clearing dishes, wearing the skin of a prince, carrying the mind of a Skaven warlock engineer.
He had survived the first test. He had fooled them, or at least fooled them enough to avoid immediate suspicion. But this was only the beginning. He would need to maintain this deception day after day. He would need to learn to be human. To act like a child. To pretend to be someone he fundamentally was not.
And more than that, he would need to survive in this world. To adapt. To thrive. Because if there was one thing Ikit Claw knew how to do, it was survive.
A small smile crossed his borrowed face—the first genuine expression of his own rather than a copied semblance of Arthas's mannerisms. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who saw possibilities where others saw problems. Of someone who turned obstacles into opportunities.
Of someone who had just been handed the keys to a kingdom and had the mind to know exactly what to do with them.
Eventually.
For now, he would play the part of the recovering child. He would learn. He would adapt. He would plan.
The rest of the morning was spent in his chambers—by his own request, claiming he was still tired. The servants seemed to accept this, and he was left blessedly alone.
Alone with his thoughts. Alone with two lifetimes of memories warring in his skull. Alone with the terrifying reality of his situation.
Ikit paced the room, his new legs carrying him back and forth across the polished floor. He needed to think. To plan. To make sense of this impossible situation.
'First, the facts: He was Ikit Claw, somehow transferred into the body of Arthas Menethil. The transfer seemed complete—he had all of Arthas's memories (fuzzy as they sometimes were), access to the muscle memory, recognition from family and servants. But the consciousness, the mind, the essential self was purely Ikit.'
'Second, the questions: How had this happened? Was it permanent? Could it be reversed? Was his original body dead, or merely empty, somewhere in the Old World? Had this been the work of some entity— Skaven, Chaos, or something else entirely? Or was it a random cosmic accident?'
'Third, the challenges: He needed to maintain his cover. If anyone discovered that Prince Arthas had been replaced by the consciousness of a Skaven engineer, things would go poorly. Humans didn't react well to such revelations, he suspected. He would be seen as a demon, a possession, an abomination. They would try to "exorcise" him or "cleanse" him or simply execute him.'
None of those options were acceptable.
So he would be Arthas Menethil. He would play the part perfectly. He would grow with this body, learn its capabilities, and shape it into something useful.
And perhaps, if the opportunity arose, he would reshape this entire kingdom into something… more efficient. Something that could help him return to his body and to his world. But slowly, he cautioned himself. Slowly-slowly. Patience. Cannot reveal too much too quickly. Must grow into the role. Must learn the limitations and capabilities of this body, this world.
Yes. Patience. Not a virtue Ikit had ever possessed in abundance, but he could learn. He could adapt. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Prince Arthas?" A servant's voice. "Shall I bring lunch to your chambers, or would you prefer to dine in the hall?"
He felt hungry again… but rather than being an all-consuming drive, it was a mild compulsion. Ikit considered. He paused, searching inward for a sensation so familiar it had been part of him for as long as he could remember—the Black Hunger. That gnawing, clawing emptiness that never truly faded, no matter how much you ate, no matter how recently you'd fed. Every Skaven knew it. It was the backdrop of existence, as constant as the hum of warpstone generators in the deep workshops. You learned to function with it, to think around it, but it was always there—always pulling at the edges of your mind, whispering that you needed more, that there was never enough.
It was gone.
'Strange,' he thought. 'Very-very strange.'
And yet… it felt surprisingly good. Without that constant gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, his mind felt clearer. Sharper. Like a lens finally polished free of grime. He could think without part of his brain screaming for sustenance. Could plan without the desperate undercurrent of need clouding every calculation. For the first time in his centuries-long life, he could focus entirely on the things that truly mattered—strategy, engineering, survival—without hunger clawing for attention like a half-starved clan-rat at the bars of a cage. He filed the observation away. Useful. Very useful.
The breakfast had been exhausting in ways that fighting dwarf-things or other pests never had been, he wasn't sure he could handle another performance so soon.
"Chambers," thus he called out. "Bring it here." "As you wish, my prince."
The servant left, and Ikit returned to his pacing.
He moved to the window and looked out over the palace grounds. Gardens stretched below, carefully maintained and beautiful in that orderly human way. Beyond that, he could see the city of Lordaeron's capital—white stone buildings, organized streets, people going about their business in relative peace and prosperity.
So different from Skavenblight. So different from the Under-Empire.
But Ikit Claw had always been adaptable. It was why he'd survived when so many others hadn't. He could see patterns. Find weaknesses. Turn any situation to his advantage.
This situation was no different.
Well. Except for the complete absence of warpstone, the lack of Skaven society, the wrong body, the wrong world, and the need to pretend to be a human child for the foreseeable future.
'Minor details,' he told himself, and almost believed it.
The servant returned with lunch—bread, cheese, some kind of soup, fruit. Simple fare. Ikit ate mechanically, fueling this new body while his mind churned through possibilities.
As the days would turn into weeks, as he would grow into this role, he would need to make some decisions. What kind of Arthas would he become? He had the template of the original—noble, brave, devoted to protecting his people. But Ikit could shape that. Could twist it. Could make this prince into something more… useful.
A ruler who understood the value of technology. Who saw warfare as a science rather than a test of honor. Who made decisions based on efficiency and results rather than sentiment and tradition.
The body might be Arthas Menethil. But the mind?
The mind was still Ikit Claw.
And that made all the difference