Tirisfal Glades and the Western Plaguelands

At the border between Tirisfal Glades and the Western Plaguelands, a cavalry unit raced west at full speed. They wore no cumbersome armor, only light leather. Though the white-haired knight at their head was advanced in years, he was not to be underestimated. His name was Turalyon. Just as he focused on the road ahead, a sudden whistle cut through the air. Turalyon relaxed his legs and leaned to one side, hiding behind his horse. He looked up to see a crossbow bolt as thick as a bowl flash past him. The tiny mark on its head identified it: it was a bolt from the Scarlet Crusade.

Turalyon had sharp eyes and quick reflexes, and had escaped unharmed, but many of his escorts were not so lucky. They were handpicked veterans, but the attack had come without warning, on their own territory, and the bolts were simply too fast. Of Turalyon's twenty escorts, only eight survived.

"Lord Turalyon! Hurry, go!"

The eight remaining escorts rode up around Turalyon and drew their swords, hoping to shield him as they retreated. But their horses had barely started running when they suddenly pitched forward and crashed to the ground. Once the riders scrambled back to their feet, they saw a tripwire stretched across the road.

When the eight escorts raised their swords and formed a protective ring around Turalyon, they realized they were surrounded. Their attackers were clearly human; their chests rose and fell with each breath.

After receiving word from Taelan that the camp had been attacked by the Forsaken, Turalyon had immediately set aside everything else and traveled light, hoping to return to Tirisfal Glades as quickly as possible and take charge. But who could have imagined someone would ambush him on his own turf? More astonishing still, the attackers were