"Something is wrong up ahead!" — Lor'themar's voice sounded sharp. Even at a distance of a couple of kilometers, his elven vision had caught alarming signs.
"Looks like the trolls have decided to stop playing hide-and-seek," — Arthas's vision, sharpened not only by training but also by the power of the Light, was no worse, and perhaps even surpassed the keen sight of some elves. He could already clearly see the dark-green mass, like a tide, desperately beating against the flimsy barricades.
The Prince slightly hefted in his hand his massive warhammer, the Might of Menethil, bearing the crest of the House of Menethil. The sensation of its familiar weight was calming.
"Sound the horn," his voice was calm and firm. "The battle begins."
The order was passed down the chain. The dwarven riflemen, stocky and bearded warriors from Ironforge, lowered their crossbows and rifles. They drew from behind their backs enormous, twisted metal horns, as thick as their muscular arms. Drawing a full breath of air, they blew with a fierce zeal, and a deep, rolling roar spread over the Eversong Woods.
"To the attack! For Lordaeron!" — the cry of a hundred knights rolled through the ranks.
Immediately, a detachment of priests stepped forward. They were led by the High Priestess Lilian, her face focused and stern. At her signal, dozens of hands were raised to the sky. A soft golden light enveloped every warrior in the army, washing away the fatigue of the long march, infusing new strength into their muscles, and covering their armor with an invisible but strong shield of faith.
The vanguard of the Lordaeron army flared up. Ten paladins, including Uther, were enveloped in such a dazzling golden radiance that for a moment it made the sunlight itself dim. With honed, fluid movements, they called upon the Light. The air around them thickened with the power of their Auras of Retribution, and sacred seals of righteousness and command flashed on their weapons and armor.
Uther the Lightbringer pulled the reins of his armored steed and turned to Arthas:
"I will lead the charge! You, first thing, find the Ranger-General and ascertain the situation!"
"I obey, Master!" the prince nodded. "I will join soon, leave some of that troll scum for me too!"
"Ha-ha!" Uther laughed thunderously. "There will be enough for everyone!"
"For the Light!"
Eleven paladins. Only eleven warriors. They crashed into the thousands-strong army of trolls. It did not look like a battle. It looked like a press crushing grapes. Like a road roller, they broke a path for themselves through the dark-green sea of enemies, leaving behind a swath of light, steel, and broken bones.
Immediately, taking advantage of the breakthrough, a hundred knights of Lordaeron struck the confused ranks of the trolls from the flank, sowing panic and death. And in the center, the heavy infantry closed ranks in front of the elven barricades. The clash of steel, the dull thuds of shields—they formed an unbreakable wall, holding back the onslaught and allowing the elves to change positions and help the wounded. Every troll that broke through to the magical barrier immediately met its death on the end of a long sword.
While the army was grinding the enemy, Arthas, accompanied by a detachment of priests, followed Lor'themar and his rangers into the depths of the camp, where, according to the elf, Sylvanas's command tent was located.
Before even entering the tent, the Prince and the High Priestess Lilian grew grim. The air here was heavy, permeated with a sinister aura that made the blood run cold. This was not just the residual magic of battle—it was corruption.
Throwing back the tent flap, Arthas saw her. General Sylvanas Windrunner was sitting on a camp cot, pale as death. Ugly black patterns were spreading across her snow-white neck like poisonous ivy.
"She is cursed," he stated, turning to Lilian. "And the curse is very strong."
Lady Lilian, without wasting a second, approached Sylvanas. The thick, warm Light surrounding the priestess made the elves respectfully part. They immediately understood who was before them. Lilian placed her palm on the general's breastplate, closed her eyes, and concentrated.
A moment later, Arthas noticed that the horrible black patterns on Sylvanas's neck had faded slightly, but they were still very far from complete disappearance.
Lilian opened her eyes and shook her head with regret, addressing the prince:
"Your Highness, I cannot dispel it here. Even if the other priests and I join forces, we can only slow its spread. A curse of this level... to remove it would require the simultaneous work of at least three high priests in a consecrated cathedral. Or... the personal intervention of His Eminence Faol."
"That serious?" Arthas was surprised. Archbishop Faol was, without a doubt, the main authority on matters of the Light. A curse requiring his power led the prince to a very specific thought.
'The curse of a demigod.'
And then all the strange aspects of this campaign fell into a single picture. The invasion was organized by a high priest serving one of the Loa. Only he, possessing almost divine authority, could mobilize not five, but fifty thousand trolls.
This meant that their mission had transformed from a support mission into a rescue operation. They, with a force of just over two thousand warriors, found themselves facing a multi-thousand army of fanatics, led by a powerful sorcerer who could at any moment call upon his dark god for help. The result of a direct confrontation was obvious.
'Okay, the plan changes. We repel the attack and organize a tactical retreat. In common parlance—we're bugging out.'
Out of sheer precaution, Arthas went over and checked Sylvanas's condition himself. And he immediately realized—he could heal it.
A little explanation is needed here. You see, the power of the Light, which priests and paladins use, is not just magic. The Holy Light itself, as a fundamental force of the universe, is neither good nor evil. It is neutral. And only paladins, thanks to their unwavering faith in justice and their righteous deeds, act like a filter, "coloring" this energy, giving it that heroic, good character.
Only for Arthas, everything was different from the others. He never "believed" in the Light in the usual sense—he was its direct conductor.
His power was not the filtered, "domesticated" Light, but its original, universal form. Wild and absolute. Such a Light did not just banish the Shadow. It annihilated it, rewriting reality itself and turning everything that is not Light, into Light.
Arthas himself did not fully understand the reason for this. From his very birth, a strange mental construct had existed in his consciousness, similar to a star chart of the six cosmic forces. And this "chart," apparently, gave him direct access to the primary sources, bypassing all rules and rituals.
The quality of his Light already surpassed the divine power of some Loa. But therein lay the problem. If he were to hit Sylvanas with this primordial power without restraint, then of course, nothing would remain of the curse. As, indeed, of Sylvanas herself. At best, she would become a statue of pure light.
To destroy the curse, he needed to find a delicate balance, a critical point. And such fine calibration required time—possibly an hour or two. The trolls, obviously, would not give them such a generous gift.
Therefore, Arthas began his game. He spoke in the Common tongue—the language of humans, which in the tent, besides himself, only Sylvanas and Lor'themar understood.
"Lady Windrunner, I can remove this curse."
Sylvanas smiled with relief:
"Excellent, Your Highness, shall we proceed then?"
"But there is a problem," Arthas continued.
"What is it?" she frowned, sensing a catch.
"First, removing this curse requires time, perhaps several hours. Second," his gaze became firm, "the trolls will not give us that time."
"Why are you so sure? The magical barrier will hold for a long time yet, and with your support, we can continue to fight," she asked, puzzled as to where Arthas got such confidence.
"I suppose you have heard of the 'Loa'?" the prince got to the point.
Sylvanas froze, and then her face twisted in the horror of realization. "You mean to say..."
"That this curse is from them or their high priest," Arthas finished for her. "Otherwise, how to explain that even a high priest of the Holy Light is unable to quickly remove this curse?"
The prince's words plunged her into shock. Remembering the strange trap she had fallen into, Sylvanas realized that this version, however terrible, sounded plausible.
"I didn't think that after so many years they still had living high priests," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
Historical chronicles and intelligence reports stated one thing: during the ancient Troll Wars, the Amani priestly caste was almost completely destroyed. The Loa themselves were so severely scorched by the power of the Sunwell then that they lost the ability to fully influence this world for a long time.
Subsequent centuries of skirmishes only confirmed this—she had never encountered manifestations of power of this level. Apparently, one of the priests had still survived in those dark times and managed to pass on the knowledge. Or... or the trolls had found themselves a new, even darker patron.
Having been burned once by her own self-confidence, Sylvanas was not going to risk it again. She perfectly understood the authority of a high priest in the tribes—his word was more important than the word of any chieftain. The initial plan—to hold the invasion here, on this line—crumbled to dust.
Thoughts raced feverishly in her head. Along the border, but already inside the Ban'dinoriel magical barrier, the Farstriders had a whole network of fortresses and outposts. But elven pride had always dictated a different tactic to them: to meet and destroy the enemy on their territory, not even allowing them to approach the sacred lands.
But not this time. Too much was at stake. If her detachment, the main fighting force on this border, was defeated, then the troll army led by a priest could really threaten Quel'Thalas itself. Thinking of the civilians in the Eversong Woods, Sylvanas cast aside her last doubts.
"I understand," she finally said. "As soon as we repel this wave, we retreat to the fortress behind the barrier."
Arthas, for his part, was glad that she did not turn out to be one of those elves whose arrogance outweighs strategic thinking.
Now that the decision had been made, he made his final move. He switched to pure, melodic Thalassian, and all the elves in the tent looked at him in amazement.
"Then be assured, esteemed lady, that the army of Lordaeron will always be beside the Farstriders in this battle."
And only then did Sylvanas fully appreciate his maneuver. He had spoken to her in Common to save her face, allowing her to make the decision to retreat herself. And then, in their native tongue, he publicly swore his support, so that none of her subordinates would have any doubts about his intentions as an ally.
It was... elegant. And unexpected. She had forgotten the last time she had encountered such gentlemanly behavior. Usually, her communication with men was reduced to squabbles with the stubborn old men from the Silvermoon council.