Chapter Thirteen: Could It Be That You Like Me?

Shortly after curing Sylvanas, Arthas spotted the banners of Lordaeron and the Farstriders from afar.

“Arthas, what have you done? Not long after we left, those trolls seemed to have gone mad, charging the magical barrier and then suffering a full-power explosion.”

Uther entered the fortress, seeing his pupil and asking curiously.

“They sent a priest to hunt us down, but we took him out.”

“A priest? The one with the saber-toothed tiger’s head on the wall?” Uther noticed the intimidating “banner” after Arthas pointed it out.

“Yes, Master. You know about the trolls’ shaman priests?”

“I’ve read about them in some ancient texts but never encountered one on the battlefield,” Uther replied. “They are said to wield the power of the gods—mysterious and formidable, extremely difficult to face.”

“Exactly, Master. If I hadn’t used a trick, that single troll priest could have killed us all.” Arthas showed Uther his battered armor.

The Lightbringer frowned upon seeing the armor nearly torn apart. “You must have used the Light’s protection?”

“Yes, but against his dreadful claws, my defenses were almost useless.”

Arthas didn’t mention that if he had unleashed the full power of the Light, the armor’s surface would have scorched the enemy, but that would have driven him to flee, losing the chance to kill Haraz.

Feigning weakness was necessary—misleading Haraz about Arthas’s strength gave him the opening to swiftly slay the troll.

“This armor was forged by the dwarven master from mithril and enchanted by mages… The troll priest is even stronger than what the books describe.”

Uther’s expression grew grave. He felt it imperative to report the troll threat to His Majesty once back.

Because the trolls hadn’t directly threatened human territories for so long—the last time was alongside orcs—their danger had been somewhat overlooked.

Now, witnessing their capability to muster armies of tens of thousands in a short span, and their formidable supernatural powers, Uther believed it was crucial to reinforce the kingdom’s borders.

“No need to worry excessively, Master. The trolls’ high priests aren’t mere stones on the road; otherwise, they wouldn’t have gone so mad after losing one priest.”

Arthas explained the possible strength of the Amani trolls. “We should take the troll problem seriously, but Lordaeron has yet to fully recover from the Second War. Launching a major offensive deep into the troll forest would only end in mutual destruction.”

“And as long as we hold off their next assault and inflict enough losses, we won’t have to worry about the troll threat for at least several years.”

—By then, in Arthas’s plan, the kingdom would have long since shed the massive burden of the orc refugee camps. He himself would have altered a crucial destiny, officially gaining the means to counter demigods. Then, united with the elves, they would permanently resolve the troll menace in the northern forests.

“Besides, the elves should be more concerned about the trolls in the forest since their lands border Amani territory directly, not ours.”

Let the elves and trolls keep each other in check. As long as the high elves aren’t wiped out, the trolls won’t bypass the Elven Gate to threaten Lordaeron on the other side of the mountains.

Even in another troll-infested region, Hinterlands, which borders part of Lordaeron, the only passage out of Hinterlands is the dwarven stronghold of Wildhammer, where trolls are too busy fighting dwarves daily to bother humans.

In summary, Lordaeron’s main problems now, aside from the orc refugee camps, are certain dark forces lurking in the kingdom’s shadows, attempting to subvert everything.

“You’re right. The wounds from the Second War are still fresh. We don’t have the strength to wipe out so many trolls now,” Uther sighed, recalling those chaotic times of war when humanity paid a heavy price to defeat powerful enemies.

The fragile alliance formed then has long since become a worthless piece of paper; unity is lost.

Patting his student on the shoulder, Uther said, “I’ll check on the soldiers. You just fought a fierce battle—rest for a while. By dawn, the trolls should launch a major attack.”

When the moon hung high, Arthas stepped out of his temporary quarters and quietly gazed over the tranquil forest from the ramparts.

“Nice scenery here, isn’t it?”

Sylvanas’s voice came from behind. The Ranger General was also sleepless—given their strength, going days without rest was not difficult.

Having not expended much energy in the day’s battle, she took the opportunity to patrol the walls, not expecting to find Arthas here.

“Yes, Lady. To see such views in Lordaeron, one must go to the western mountains.”

Leaning on the battlement, Arthas enjoyed the night breeze.

“You mean the western mountains of Tirisfal Glades?” Sylvanas naturally took up the conversation. “Queldorei lore says that’s no good place—”

“Books say it’s home to ominous monsters, driving many mad. Similar volumes exist in Lordaeron’s royal library,” Arthas said casually, “but in reality, many towns lie at the mountain’s base, including one of Lordaeron’s busiest.”

“Who knows? I haven’t read many of those mysterious old tomes. Records from that era are vague.”

Indeed, it was an ancient age, even before the high elves settled in these forests—before Sylvanas herself was born.

Arthas smiled but did not elaborate—he knew well what lay buried deep in those mountains but lacked the strength yet to unravel that secret.

Perhaps because Arthas’s personality was so likable, Sylvanas was willing to chat a bit.

“You’re a human prince, yet you seem quite knowledgeable about these ancient secrets.”

“You surely know more, Lady Windrunner. Your family was legendary in Quel’Thalas. I never imagined fighting alongside you.”

Arthas’s words stirred memories in Sylvanas, her tone turning somber.

“My family was indeed legendary, but now, I am the last of them.”

Her sister, Alleria Windrunner, had entered the Dark Portal with the expedition during the Second War—the gateway the orcs used to invade this world.

That towering portal still stands in the cursed southern lands, a silent monument inscribed with the suffering of the Eastern Kingdoms.

In that war that swept the world, Sylvanas lost two close kin: her sister vanished beyond the Dark Portal, whereabouts unknown; her brother fell victim during the orcish raids on elven villages.

Her remaining sister now lives far from Quel’Thalas, in the human magical kingdom of Dalaran, commanding the high elf ranger forces stationed there.

The once vast Windrunner family had been reduced to her alone within just a few years. She bore the heavy burden of Ranger General, either guarding the front lines or arguing with councilors in Silvermoon’s parliament.

She had grown weary of those idle, shortsighted councilors who failed to recognize the threats facing the elves—not even the orc breach of Banditorel during the Second War jolted them awake.

If not for protecting her kin in Eversong Woods, she might have followed her elder sister and younger sister in leaving the affairs of war behind, quietly living as a simple ranger.

“Forgive me if my words were improper.”

Arthas spoke again after a pause. Sylvanas neither agreed nor disagreed—perhaps she too sensed the Windrunner legend was no longer what it once was.

“I think the Windrunner family has always been legendary,” Arthas said, turning to look at her. “Your sister sacrificed everything to protect this world; your other sister stays far away in Dalaran, upholding our fragile alliance—you yourself have given so much for your people. You have all always been legends.”

Sylvanas stared at Arthas for a long moment, then teasingly said, “You don’t suppose you’ve taken a fancy to me, Prince?”

“Cough!” Arthas nearly choked on her words, forcing a wry smile.

“Lady, I have no such intentions. I already have a fiancée.”

“Hah, who knows? It’s not uncommon for human nobles to have multiple lovers,” Sylvanas seemed to nudge the topic that way. “Though I’m a general, unlike the ladies of Silvermoon, I take some pride in my looks. And that human named Turalyon—didn’t he trick my sister away?”

Arthas hadn’t expected Sylvanas to jump to such conclusions—Turalyon courting elves had never crossed his mind!

But he couldn’t deny elves’ naturally exquisite appearances. Any elf chosen at random would be among the finest looking humans.

Especially the battle-seasoned Lady Windrunner, who possessed a unique charm—her delicate features, striking figure, and regal demeanor were hard for most men to resist.

“Ha,” Sylvanas laughed, seeing Arthas’s embarrassed expression. Her mood lightened; she no longer wanted to question his “crude” healing methods. “I’m just joking, Prince. I wouldn’t fall for a human, but I think we could be friends.”

Arthas finally breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t expected Sylvanas, before her grave misfortune, to have such a lively personality.

—He had no desire to get involved with this complex lady. Aside from the potential troubles, his fiancée was already more than enough to deal with.

Though gentle, understanding, and kind, Arthas preferred not to bring misfortune upon any woman in this matter.