"Prince?" Baron Rivendare's voice tore Arthas from the depths of his strategic calculations. He blinked, returning to reality—to the noisy hall, filled with laughter and the clash of goblets.
"Forgive me, Baron, I was lost in thought."
"Nonsense!" Rivendare waved him off. "I understand that His Majesty's expectations are a serious pressure. But surely, now you can relax!"
With those words, he handed Arthas a heavy tankard. "To you, lad!"
They drained a full tankard of thick dwarven ale. The Baron, scorning all aristocratic manners, wiped the foam from his mustache with his sleeve and immediately poured another.
"Ha! That's the spirit! I, Rivendare of the Silver Hand, drink to you being brave and fearless!"
Gavinrad the Dire immediately joined them:
"And I, Gavinrad, drink to the future victories of my brother-in-arms!"
Uther, placing a heavy hand on Arthas's shoulder, said with pride:
"To my finest student. May your path always be illuminated by the Light and justice!"
From the other end of the table rose Saidan Dathrohan, a knight built of pure muscle and resembling a living fortress:
"To our brother Arthas! May evil not touch him!"
And even Tirion Fordring, the kindest and gentlest of them, raised his goblet:
"To our brother Arthas! May your heart remain honest and kind!"
Arthas glanced around at these living legends, the cream of the paladins, and his heart filled with bitterness and determination. He raised his tankard:
"To the eternal prosperity of Lordaeron! And to the Light that guides the Silver Hand!"
This was their feast. A feast of warriors, the pillars of Lordaeron, its last hope. None of them knew that in just a few short years, only ruins would remain of this greatness, and they themselves would be reduced to bones or fall into darkness.
But not this time. In this timeline, no funeral songs await them. The fate of Azeroth will be different. Mortals may seem weak in the face of doom, but when disaster strikes, they rise to defend their world.
Such is the law of this universe.
The next morning, Arthas woke up to a dull pain in his temples. The previous night's banquet had resulted in a significant hangover.
Those hulking men, for whom a barrel of ale is what a glass of water is to an ordinary person, had given him a real test of endurance. Only his Light-enhanced physiology allowed him to wake up today, and not the day after tomorrow.
However, in the "table combat," he had shown himself to be worthy. None of those who tried to get him drunk left unsatisfied. Gavinrad and Rivendare were particularly zealous. Those two shameless fellows acted in concert, insisting that a "young organism can endure anything," and forcing him to drink two tankards for their one.
Baron Rivendare was clearly taking revenge for the incident when Arthas, as a child, had blabbed to his wife, Lady Annastari, about a small embarrassment of his. But what was Gavinrad, that straightforward lug, getting into it for?
In short, those two would most likely have to spend a couple of days in bed. They drank so much yesterday that an ordinary person's stomach would have burst. Twice.
"Almost died on the very first day. From alcohol poisoning," he muttered, splashing his face with icy water. He raised his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror.
"I've been looking at it for so many years, and still can't get used to it. Not a face, but a walking recruitment poster for the paladins. I don't know what kind of genetics the Menethils have, but my sister Calia is a recognized beauty, and I... well, I didn't disappoint either. A perfect profile, a determined chin, a bit of coldness in the gaze..."
Alright, something was carrying him away.
As soon as Arthas had dressed and opened the door, he ran into a servant who was just about to knock.
"Your Highness, Lord Uther awaits you in the reception room," he reported respectfully, stepping aside.
My mentor? So early? Arthas was somewhat surprised. Uther had hardly drunk yesterday, so his energy was no surprise. But to come so early in the morning... it meant the matter was urgent.
In the drawing-room, Uther was waiting for him, already clad in battle armor. His libram hung from a heavy chain at his belt.
I think a small note is needed here. A Libram is not just a book of prayers and combat tactics. It is, in fact, a weapon. Imagine a tome in a metal binding with spiked corners, weighing about twenty kilograms, which can be detached from its chain at any moment and used as a flail.
If a paladin has donned his armor and brought this "book" with him, it means trouble is brewing.
"Master, what has happened?" Arthas got straight to the point. Uther's appearance did not bode well.
"This morning I received an urgent order from the capital," Uther began without preamble. "Our allies have been attacked. We must provide them with military assistance."
Allies? Arthas's mind began to work at a frantic pace. Stratholme was located in the Eastern Lands of the kingdom, right on the border. There were no neighboring human kingdoms here. An urgent order requiring immediate intervention... only one option remained. The high elves to the north.
"Have the forest trolls decided to probe the borders of Quel'Thalas again?" he asked.
"Exactly," Uther was not even surprised by his student's shrewdness. "But this time, their forces significantly surpass a typical raid. The elves believe it will be difficult for them to cope on their own."
"Well, what news," irony crept into Arthas's voice. "Have those pointy-eared gentlemen finally acknowledged that magic alone is sometimes not enough? And now they need humans to put their heads under troll axes?"
"The request for aid came through Dalaran. Directly to the court mages," Uther specified.
Arthas sighed heavily.
"I see. Kael'thas. He is always bustling about, trying to do what's best, while his stubborn council of elderly magisters sits idly by. He should have taken power into his own hands long ago."
Kael'thas, prince of the high elves. The Quel'dorei. The elf was his friend and, concurrently, a former rival in love. Why former? Because the girl Kael'thas loved was already Arthas's girlfriend.
"His Majesty the King has ordered us to lead an expeditionary force and advance to the aid of Quel'Thalas," Uther interrupted his thoughts, listing the available forces. "At this moment, we can immediately assemble an elite force of five hundred footmen, one hundred knights, one hundred riflemen, thirty priests, ten paladins, and two archmages."
"A serious force. Especially the mages," Arthas whistled. It was an impressive force, for by "elite" Uther meant seasoned veterans of the Second War.
"We would have taken more cavalry, but in the forests, they are of little use," Uther added.
Arthas nodded. His father's message was clear. He was giving him a free hand. Resources were not the problem. The main thing was the result. A brilliant and swift victory.
"I understand," he said firmly. "In addition to these forces, I will take twenty of my 'Secret Swords' with me."
Hearing this, even the unflappable Uther froze for a moment. He looked at his student in surprise. To use this force for an ordinary support operation?
"The Secret Sword." The elite combat unit of the "Secret Order"—Arthas's personal organization. Their only task was to quickly, quietly, and as efficiently as possible send the enemies of Lordaeron to their eternal sleep.