Eitrigg opened its blood-red maw and began tearing at Tirion Fordring's flesh.
Tirion Fordring screamed in agony; he was severely wounded and powerless to resist, and could only pray to the Holy Light.
"O supreme Holy Light, bless me, grant me strength, and help me break free from these shackles."
"Your Holy Light will not protect you. I am a noble Orcs, and you are but an Evil human. Tirion Fordring, as despicable as you are, you deserve only to be Orcs food."
Eitrigg bit into Tirion Fordring's left shoulder, tearing off a large chunk of flesh, which was dripping with blood as he chewed it.
"Ha ha!"
Mannoroth, the Pit Lord, burst into hearty laughter, mocking, "Tirion Fordring, how do you feel about being eaten by the Orcs you consider the noblest?"
"No! No! This shouldn't be my Destiny!" Tirion Fordring roared.
"To portray the despicable and cruel Orcs as the noblest race—this is your just deserts, Tirion Fordring. You are nothing but the Betrayer to humanity."
Pit Lord Mannoroth of the Pit Lord said condescendingly, "Eitrigg escaped from Orgrimmar. This cunning Orcs knew that all was lost after Thrall's death, so he secretly fled Orgrimmar and sought refuge with Sylvanas."
Eitrigg cruelly ripped open Tirion Fordring's chest, ripped out his still-beating heart, and swallowed it whole.
With a thud.
Tirion Fordring knelt on the ground, his eyes gradually dimming, and finally breathed his last.
Mannoroth, the Pit Lord, extended his claws, and a black light appeared in the palm of his claws, enveloping Tirion Fordring.
"Tirion Fordring, Sylvanas commanded that your soul will never find rest. You will become a wretched Restless Souls, wandering the Plaguelands, telling adventurers of your betrayal. This is the retribution you deserve."
Mannoroth grabbed Tirion Fordring's soul, and the Restless Souls, shrouded in dark magic, let out a series of pitiful howls.
"Go, Tirion Fordring, your soul will never find peace."
A blood-stained, tear-streaked Restless Souls walked through the Plaguelands, constantly uttering mournful cries.
No one knew that he was once the leader of the Argent Crusade, the master of Ashbringer, and the greatest Paladin of his time.
When Tirion Fordring is mentioned, people generally believe that his body lies in the crypt of the Light's Hope Chapel, and that his noble soul is protected by the Holy Light and is sacred and inviolable.
With Tirion Fordring's death, the Argent Crusade was annihilated.
Although this organization lost its historical mission and became less important after the Lich King's fall.
Lor'themar, Ranger-General Halduron, and Archmage Rommath still felt a deep sense of desolation.
Then, the Pit Lord Mannoroth led the Undead Mage, Undead, and the Undead army transformed from the Argent Crusade away from Light's Hope Chapel and quickly disappeared without a trace.
Lor'themar was terrified of Sylvanas's ruthlessness, but he did not forget his mission.
He must step forward and meet with Sylvanas.
After calming her flustered mind, Lor'themar forced herself to remain composed, acting as if nothing had happened, and led her two companions into the Light's Hope Chapel.
"Sylvanas Windrunner, my most respected commander, your loyal Adjutant Lor'themar sends his greetings."
Lor'themar bowed humbly, her manners impeccable and flawless.
Sylvanas, however, sensed a hint of estrangement in her voice. They had shared centuries of camaraderie, close comrades who would entrust their lives to each other.
Because they are so familiar with each other, they usually address each other by nicknames.
For example, in informal settings, Sylvanas habitually refers to Lor'themar as Luoma, while Lor'themar always addresses her superior as Xiwa.
Sylvanas sighed softly. The past was gone like the wind; what was past and lost could never be recovered. The dashing Ranger-General of Silvermoon City was long dead; now, the Dark Lady lived on.
Previously, when the Horde leaders gathered, Sylvanas always deliberately avoided Lor'themar to avoid stirring up memories of her past life, especially the loss of her beautiful face, which always caused her great heartache.
Now, having acquired a more perfect Fel Body, Sylvanas is able to face her former comrades with ease.
"Lor'themar, you know me, and I know you. I know your ambitions." Sylvanas took out the letter of allegiance Lor'themar had written to her, casually fiddled with it a few times, and chuckled lightly.
"If I'm not mistaken, you must have sent a similar letter of allegiance to the Alliance as well. You're too clever for your own good, but being clever isn't always a good thing."
Lor'themar felt a chill run down his spine, and sweat poured down his face. He had thought he had disguised himself very well.
Even when Silvermoon City faced its greatest crisis, Sylvanas still trusted Lor'themar the most.
Unfortunately, what he didn't expect was that Sylvanas had already seen through him.
"I understand everything you've done for Silvermoon City. If I were in your shoes, I would have done the same."
Sylvanas's voice was calm yet authoritative; she had controlled the situation from the start, giving Lor'themar no chance to explain.
"Everyone makes mistakes, that's okay. I'm willing to give you a chance to redeem yourself, and the Blood Elves of Silvermoon City as well."
A sharp dagger appeared in Sylvanas's hand, and she slashed her wrist without hesitation.
Although the blood was still bright red, it carried a strong aura of Fel, dripping into the cup.
Fel is a magical power that can flow in the veins of a Fel user or penetrate into every muscle of the body, transforming the body. Blood filled with the aura of Fel energy quickly filled a cup.
Sylvanas pushed the cup towards Lor'themar and said casually:
"Lor'themar, you are a smart woman. Back then, Medivh was unstoppable, supporting the Orcs from behind. You chose to side with Medivh, thus saving a portion of your people. I don't blame you. Now you face an opponent just like Medivh was back then. You were able to watch the Orcs tear the Sun King apart without batting an eye. As wise as you are, you should make the right choice."
Regent Lor'themar's hands began to tremble. Based on the history of the Orcs, he knew what the consequences would be if he drank this cup of Sylvanas's blood: there would be no room for resistance.
Lor'themar hesitated, unsure of what to do, and looked at her two friends beside her.
Ranger-General Halduron and Archmage Rommath considered many possibilities, but they never expected Sylvanas to make Lor'themar drink blood.
To say yes or no?
Remembering Tirion Fordring's tragic end, and how his restless Restless Souls still roams the Plaguelands, Lor'themar's face contorted with terror as he was gradually consumed by the fear within him.
Sylvanas suddenly laughed, her voice melodious and pleasant.
Why don't you ask what the cost is?
Lor'themar asked nervously, stammering, "Then, what is the price?"
Sylvanas proudly removed her hood, revealing a head of golden hair as bright as the sun, delicate skin, and a beautiful face like an apple blossom.
"This is the price."
Lor'themar stared blankly at Sylvanas, as did his two friends.
High Elves are practically immortal; barring unforeseen circumstances, their appearance will remain unchanged for thousands of years.
The three members of Lor'themar knew Sylvanas's appearance very well; she looked even more beautiful now than when she was alive.
"That's impossible." Ranger-General Halduron rubbed his eyes and said seriously.
"What caused your judgment to go astray? Who says Fel can't bring beauty? You should remember the Eredar sisters, renowned for their beauty," Sylvanas reminded them smugly.
"But they're Orcs."
The chief Archmage, Rommath, asked a question, then immediately realized he had misunderstood.