Chapter One: His Highness of Lordaeron

Kingdom of Lordaeron, within the grand cathedral of Stratholme. Hymns and songs of praise echoed through the sacred hall, while the gentle yet radiant light of the Holy Light shone upon the young knight half-kneeling at the center of the nave. Countless eyes were fixed upon this solemn ceremony.

The aged Archbishop Alonsus Faol, holding the sacred tome, made the final and most powerful inquiry to the youth who had fulfilled all the requirements to become a paladin.

“Arthas, do you willingly seek to join the Order of the Silver Hand? Do you vow to follow the guidance of the Holy Light, uphold the eight virtues of the paladin, protect the weak, the women and children, and all innocents, to fight for justice against injustice and evil, to love your homeland, and to safeguard your people and those dear to you?”

The young prince’s eyes shone with a brilliance that outshone even the Holy Light itself. Without hesitation, he proclaimed his oath with a clear and resolute voice.

“Yes, I willingly join the Order of the Silver Hand. I swear to treat the weak with kindness and to stand bravely against tyranny; I swear to oppose all evil and wrongdoing, and to protect the defenseless innocent; I swear to love my homeland, to defend my people, and to remain steadfast to those I love until death; I swear to walk the path of the Holy Light and to become a paladin of the Silver Hand!”

Archbishop Faol, hearing this powerful oath and witnessing the dazzling Light, was deeply gratified. “Your Highness, the Order of the Silver Hand welcomes you.”

After completing several more ceremonial rites, it was nearly dinnertime before the induction of Arthas into the Silver Hand finally drew to a close.

Ordinarily, the process of ordaining a paladin of the Silver Hand was not so elaborate, but as the crown prince of Lordaeron, and at King Terenas’s behest, the cathedral of Stratholme was more than willing to make the event widely known.

“Congratulations, Arthas.”

After the ceremony, Arthas’s mentor, Uther the Lightbringer, came forth to congratulate his pupil. Uther was a stern and earnest paladin of great strength, and even he struggled to find fault with his student.

“Your Highness, you are the finest paladin I have ever had the privilege to ordain before I return to the Light myself,” Archbishop Faol praised Arthas highly, believing that his protégé even surpassed the first paladins in excellence.

“Master, Archbishop, you flatter me. Aside from being the prince, I am but an ordinary member of the Order,” Arthas replied, showing no trace of pride despite his youth and his newly gained status.

“You are too modest, Your Highness,” said the archbishop gently. Though advanced in years, his mind remained keen. “I believe the Silver Hand will have a brighter future with you among us. Make the most of your time in the Order; it is what your father desires for you as well.”

The archbishop, now weary from the lengthy ceremony, offered Arthas an apologetic smile. “Please forgive my absence from the banquet later. This old man won’t intrude upon the merriment of you young folk. I must return to the cathedral for further prayer.”

“Take care of yourself, Archbishop,” Arthas replied, well aware of the archbishop’s frail health. Presiding over such a lengthy ceremony was taxing for him.

After watching Archbishop Faol depart with the help of his attendants, Arthas turned to Uther, a note of concern in his voice. “The archbishop’s condition truly worries me.”

“Master is fully aware of his limits, Arthas,” Uther replied with his usual steady tone as he watched the old man’s retreating figure. “Every life must come to its end. One day, Master will return to the Light, as shall we all. There’s no need for undue sorrow.”

Arthas could only shake his head helplessly; there was nothing he could do about such matters. Compared to the high elves, whose lives spanned millennia, human lifespans were so brief—let alone in comparison to the near-immortal dragons and night elves.

Setting aside this somber topic, Arthas smiled and extended an invitation to Uther. “Master, you missed my last birthday banquet, so you mustn’t be absent this time.”

A rare smile appeared on Uther’s solemn face. “Of course, my boy. Last time, duty kept me away, and I regret missing your celebration.”

With that, the two left the cathedral without lingering. They made their way to the lord’s manor in Stratholme, where Baron Rivendare, the city’s ruler, was hosting a grand banquet in their honor.

—

“Look who’s here!” Baron Rivendare, wineglass in hand, called out to the guests with a gleam in his eye. “Ha! The star of Lordaeron—Prince Arthas!”

“Good evening, my lord,” Arthas greeted him. “It’s a pleasure to see you. Has it been three years since we last met?”

“That’s right, but you were already a fine young man then. Every time His Majesty King Terenas summons me, he mentions you,” Baron Rivendare replied affably. He was also a member of the Silver Hand, which is why Arthas had asked him to host a banquet for their fellow knights.

Most paladins were serious and reserved, but in private, their individual personalities shone through. At gatherings such as this, the atmosphere was relaxed and congenial.

After the feast, the senior knights of the Silver Hand gathered together and began to converse.

“Your Highness, you became a full paladin at nineteen. At your age, I was an unknown squire,” said Gavinrad the Dire, one of the first five paladins of the Silver Hand.

The title of paladin was not merely a name; it signified mastery in martial skills and command of the powerful Holy Light. According to Uther, Arthas’s strength was already on par with any of the original paladins.

Such talent was almost unimaginable. The five founders of the Silver Hand were either battle-hardened warriors or devout priests who had studied the Light for decades—yet Arthas, at only nineteen, had already reached such heights.

What endeared him even more to his peers and to Archbishop Faol was Arthas’s near-perfect character.

He had never shown pride or arrogance. Arthas treated everyone around him with courtesy, and the youthful recklessness and conceit common to his age were utterly absent.

Such an exemplary knight was rare even among the Silver Hand.

“I’m really not as good as you all say,” Arthas replied with a wry smile, though only he knew the truth behind it all.

Arthas Menethil, the only son of King Terenas Menethil, the future king of Lordaeron—his name represented a future that, in another possible world, was nothing less than a dire curse.