The great cathedral of Stratholme hummed like a stirred hive. The sounds of the organ and the choir's singing intertwined into one, soaring beneath the high gothic vaults and seeming to make the very air vibrate. Rays of light, breaking through the huge stained-glass windows, bathed everything in gold. And at the very epicenter of this grand spectacle, kneeling, was him. Prince Arthas Menethil. Straight out of a history book illustration.
Before him, majestic and ancient as Lordaeron itself, stood Archbishop Alonsus Faol. He held a heavy tome in his hands, but he was looking not into it, but directly into Arthas's eyes. His voice, amplified by the magic of the Light and the acoustics of the cathedral, boomed throughout the vast chamber:
"Arthas, do you, of your own free will, enter the ranks of the Order of the Silver Hand? Are you prepared to follow the ways of the Light, to honor the virtues of a paladin, to protect the weak and the innocent? Are you prepared to become a shield for your people, a sword against injustice and evil, and to defend this land that you call home?"
The Prince raised his head. For a moment, a fire flared in his eyes, so bright that it seemed to outshine even the light from the stained glass. He took a deep breath and spoke the words he knew by heart, words that would change everything. His voice sounded firm, without a single note of doubt.
"Yes. I willingly join the Order of the Silver Hand. I swear to protect the innocent and to stand against evil. I swear to fight for justice. I swear to be true to my kingdom, my people, and those who are dear to me. I swear to walk the path of the Light and to bear the title of Paladin of the Silver Hand with honor!"
When he finished, a flash of pure golden light enveloped his figure, causing the crowd to gasp in reverence. Archbishop Faol smiled warmly.
"Then rise, paladin. The Order of the Silver Hand welcomes you."
The entire procedure, with all its ritualistic steps and bureaucratic red tape, dragged on almost until dinner.
Of course, a paladin initiation is not usually turned into such a show. But when it concerns the crown prince of Lordaeron, and when your father, King Terenas, gently hints that the event should be "covered more broadly," the cathedral obliges.
"Congratulations, Arthas," his mentor, Uther the Lightbringer, was the first to approach him.
Uther was like a rock: reliable, mighty, and utterly unbending. Even he, with all his strictness, could not find a single flaw in his student.
"The Prince is perhaps the most outstanding paladin I will have the honor of accepting into the Order before I myself depart for the Light," added Archbishop Faol, who had approached, and his voice held genuine pride.
"Master, Your Eminence, you flatter me," Arthas replied with perfectly calibrated modesty. "Without my title, I am just a recruit like all the others."
If only they knew what it cost him to maintain this image. The perfect prince, the perfect paladin... Not a young man, but a walking icon. The main thing was to ensure no one guessed that he knew the script in advance.
"You are too modest, Prince," Alonsus smiled gently. "I believe that with your arrival, the Silver Hand will have an even brighter future. Temper yourself in the Order. Your father wishes it."
The Archbishop looked exhausted. He leaned wearily on his staff and smiled apologetically,
"Please forgive my absence at the coming feast. I, an old man, will not interfere with the youths' celebration. I must return to my prayers."
"Take care of yourself, Your Eminence," Arthas said with sincere concern in his voice. Conducting such a long ceremony was a true feat for the elderly Alonsus.
He and Uther watched in silence as servants carefully led the archbishop to his chambers.
"His Eminence's state of health... it worries me greatly," Arthas said quietly.
"He knows his limits, Arthas," Uther's voice remained as even and calm as a lake on a windless day. "All living things have their end. A day will come, and he will return to the Light. Just as you and I will one day. There is no need to grieve about it ahead of time."
Arthas only shook his head. Easy to say. But when you know how short this human life is compared to thousand-year-old elves or eternal dragons... your entire destiny looks like a short film with a very bad ending.
To change the oppressive topic, Arthas turned to his mentor with a warm smile.
"Master, you missed the banquet for my birthday due to official duties. I hope you won't find an excuse this time."
Uther's stern face softened into a rare, almost imperceptible smile.
"Of course, child. I will be there."
And so it was decided. Soon, teacher and student were heading to the residence of Stratholme's ruler, Baron Rivendare, where a grand feast was held in honor of the new paladin.
…
"And here he is! Look, everyone!" the baron's own voice boomed through the hall. Rivendare, a huge and boisterous good-natured man, raised his goblet.
"The Star of Lordaeron, Prince Arthas, in person!"
"Good evening, Baron," Arthas bowed his head. "Glad to see you. Has it been three years since our last meeting?"
"Exactly! But you were a fine lad even then. His Majesty speaks of you constantly!" — the baron was quite the chatterbox. "Please, come in! Tonight, we drink to you!"
Rivendare was also a member of the Order, so Arthas had asked him to invite his comrades from the Order on his behalf.
The atmosphere at the feast was noisy, yet had a knightly feel to it. The paladins, usually serious and focused, behaved much more freely in the informal setting.
When the food and the first toasts were finished, the cream of the Order gathered around Arthas.
"Prince, to become a paladin at nineteen!" boomed Gavinrad the Dire, one of the first five paladins, a legend in the flesh. "Why, at your age, I was still wallowing in some ditch, not eradicating evil!"
Everyone laughed together. A compliment from Gavinrad was worth a great deal. After all, a paladin is not just a fancy title. It is a recognized master of combat, capable of channeling the very power of the Light. And according to Uther, his student was already equal in power to any of the founders of the Order. For a nineteen-year-old, this was simply beyond imagination.
But even more than his talent, his comrades admired his personality. It was nearly perfect. Not an ounce of pride, not a shadow of arrogance. Polite, modest, prudent. He lacked the reckless abandon that so often dooms the young and gifted. Such a flawless knight was a true gem even among the paladins of the Silver Hand.
"I... I'm not as good as you say," Arthas managed with a crooked smile.
Everyone took this for another display of modesty and rumbled their approval.
But he wasn't being modest. He was the only one in this hall who knew the truth.
Arthas Menethil. The only son of King Terenas Menethil, heir to the throne of Lordaeron, the hope of all humanity.
His name, in another, possible, reality was synonymous with a curse.