When Robbie and Arthas arrived in Stratholme, it was already noon.
The brilliant sunlight bathed the earth, while the filth huddled in the corner, trembling with fear. Arthas suddenly became sullen.
"Barthilas is dead. He Consecration his young life for Hearthglen."
Arthas sighed deeply, his stomach churning as if knotted with pain, and said painfully, "Lordaeron has never lacked warriors who would sacrifice themselves for their people, but unfortunately, there are too many treacherous villains in high positions."
Robbie remained silent; he didn't know what to say to comfort Arthas.
From here, you can already see the towering black walls of Stratholme, a sturdy fortress built entirely of volcanic rock, possessing a rugged beauty. Due to some kind of Magic Interference with the view, the walls are not very clear, appearing blurry and shrouded in thick mist, like a giant beast hidden in the wilderness.
At the gates of Stratholme, there was no tender love between Arthas and Jaina, no falling out between Uther and Arthas, no Arthas's helpless choice to massacre the city, and no Dreadlord's scheming plots.
The history recorded by the Guardians, full of dramatic flair, is nothing but a laughable lie.
The intense atmosphere of war made one feel as if they were in a deep ocean, oppressed and suffocated.
This massive fortress will withstand the test of smoke and fire.
Baron Rivendare, chewing on his tobacco, led a squad of soldiers to block a group of about fifty men.
"You cannot pass, beautiful lady."
Rivendare spoke very seriously, his tone firm and commanding, leaving no room for discussion.
The group was fully armed; the knights wore thick plate armor, and even their horses were clad in heavy armor. Behind them followed support personnel in a dozen or so large carts pulled by oxen and horses, loaded with grain, armor, weapons, and other supplies.
"What, do you look down on women, Baron?" The young girl raised her eyebrows. She had short, blond hair, carried a fine longsword on her back, and had bright, sparkling eyes that made her look both pretty and stubborn.
A small but formidable team.
Unfortunately, there was no family crest or other mark of identity.
Baron Rivendare shrugged and said curtly, "I don't mean to look down on ladies; there are brave heroes among women, it's just..." He paused, then turned and pointed to the distant harbor:
"That port is still under Stratholme's control. Many lords have left Lordaeron through the port; this doesn't count as desertion. The King is gone, Lordaeron doesn't need our loyalty. In my opinion, whether you stay or leave, you are a great hero. Beautiful lady, that's where you should be."
The girl looked up and followed the baron's gaze, and could see thousands of sails standing in the harbor of Stratholme, with ships of all sizes coming and going.
Dockworkers unloaded large quantities of cargo, and oxen and horses pulled carts, continuously transporting goods into Stratholme.
Baron Rivendare was no fool; he devoted himself to protecting Stratholme, using all his connections, emptying his coffers, and purchasing vast quantities of food and war materials.
The girl snorted and asked, "How many lords of Lordaeron have left through this dock?"
"Many, Captain Falric, bring me the roster."
The thick register was handed to Baron Rivendare, but unfortunately, there wasn't a single name on it. Rivendare slammed the register down, not even showing it to the young woman, and simply said, "Madam, you may leave now. Have a safe journey."
"I will not leave. I will fight and die like a warrior in Stratholme. I am ready."
Baron Rivendare took a deep breath, shook his head, and refused, "It's not that I doubt your resolve; others can, but you cannot, Uther's daughter. Don't think I don't know you."
The girl was startled, then gritted her teeth. "I have abandoned everything from my family, discarded that damned surname. I am no longer the daughter of the Lightbringer; I am just an ordinary citizen of Lordaeron."
"Everyone who came to Stratholme is prepared to sacrifice themselves," Baron Rivendare said sternly. "Madam, if you are prepared, please come with me. I hope you will change your mind."
In front of the main gate of Stratholme, a campfire was burning brightly, and a large pot was bubbling with green bubbles. Baron Rivendare came to the pot, scooped up a spoonful of soup, and drank it.
"A chronic Plague Potion."
Baron Rivendare, seemingly unconcerned, as if drinking a delicious broth, patiently explained:
"Improved by the Cult of the Damned, it will gradually transform us into Undead over six months. Because it's a gradual process, we can retain all our strength from our previous life. After becoming Undead, our mental power will increase significantly. For magic-based classes, the improvement in strength is quite noticeable. Whether we can retain the Holy Light is still unclear."
Baron Rivendare looked at the young woman and explained further:
"Another effect of the Plague Potion is that after the Orcs eat our corpses, they will be poisoned and fall into a state of severe weakness from which there is no cure. All the soldiers and civilians who entered Stratholme are prepared to sacrifice themselves. No one knows how long they can hold out—maybe a year, maybe three months, maybe not even three days. We would rather die than become food for the Orcs. Uther's daughter, do you want to taste the Plague?"
There's also the most important function that hasn't been mentioned: the Plague poison can eliminate spies infiltrating Stratholme. No spy wants to become Undead, and Baron Rivendare knows that strong fortresses are often breached from within.
Of the fifty Paladins who followed Uther, more than a dozen immediately changed their expressions.
"This is unacceptable, Baron! This is murder!" a knight protested.
Baron Rivendare's expression was cold. "You have a choice. Those who don't want to drink the Plague Potion, go to the docks. Ships will take you to Kingdom of Stormwind, or Menethil Harbor, or the distant Teldrassil."
The dozen or so knights immediately turned and left. They did not go to the dock, but returned along the same route.
Uther's daughter's expression also changed. Her sharp gaze swept over the remaining Paladins. She hadn't expected that there was a spy from the Silver Hand mixed in with her own group. Could it be Uther's doing?
No, the girl suddenly remembered her father's style; he had always disdained any schemes or tricks.
Needless to say, it must have been Thrall's arrangement.
Baron Rivendare didn't care; he'd seen too many things like this. He simply stared at the girl.
"Beautiful lady, you have a bright future ahead of you, but unfortunately, I must tell you that upon becoming Undead, the first thing you will lose is your youthful beauty."
The girl smiled slightly, strode forward, took a spoon from beside the large pot, scooped up a large mouthful of soup and poured it into her mouth, her beautiful eyes looking at Baron Rivendare provocatively.
The remaining Paladins remained silent, lined up in neat rows, and all drank the Plague Potion.
The Plague spread through their bodies, and the girl felt a surge of power coursing through her entire being.
Although it is a slow-acting Plague Potion, its effects take effect very quickly.
The girl's flushed face quickly dried up, but her eyes shone even brighter, and magic was brewing in her hands.
Uther's youngest daughter is not Paladin, but a highly skilled mage.
"From this day forward, Uther's daughter is dead. You may call me Lady Deathwhisper."