Paladin

By a slightly open window in the meeting room, three little heads cautiously poked out. But they only heard the first half of Anduin Lothar's passionate speech before a voice suddenly rang out from far behind them.

"Those three little rascals over there—"

The rough, booming voice made the three guilty eavesdroppers spin around in unison. In the courtyard not far away stood a short, iron-clad figure. No, more precisely, it was a fully armed Dwarf.

He had a prominent nose, and his yellow-brown beard was braided into three long plaits that hung below his waist, each tied at the end with a gleaming silver ring. Apart from his sturdy forehead and extravagant beard, the unfamiliar Dwarf was clad head to toe in solid plate armor, like a thick iron can.

But what drew even more attention were the battle hammer and axe on his back, both of which looked bigger than he was. Their polished surfaces glinted in the sunlight, making them impossible to ignore. A Mountain King, Alvin concluded after sizing him up from head to toe.

Unlike their kin, who were devoted to developing new firearms and traveling the world to uncover the secrets of Titan relics, Mountain Kings lived only for battle. They had turned the Dwarves' legacy of beer, blood, heavy drinking, and thunder—the bloodstained axe and bone-crushing hammer—into a tradition that had endured for thousands of years.

They were the idols most revered by Ironforge's warriors, the mightiest champions among Ironforge's Dwarves, and the eternal guardians of their people. Many Mountain Kings were nobles or descendants of distinguished families. Only heirs to ancient lineages could truly awaken the Titan power within them and become mighty beings able to wield thunder and transform their bodies into stone.

With the Orcs on the verge of invading, there was only one Mountain King who would appear fully armed in the palace of Lordaeron: Muradin Bronzebeard, who would later go missing in Northrend because of Arthas, become the king of the Frostborn, and eventually help establish the Council of Three Hammers.

But not everyone had the leisure to study another person's appearance. By the time the boy came back to himself, Varian, who had been caught red-handed, had already stepped forward to quietly explain, "Sir, you've got the wrong idea..."

Unlike the anxious Varian, Arthas had recognized the Ironforge envoy from his distinctive build and extravagant beard. He hurried over to Varian's side and bowed respectfully. "Sir Muradin!"

He had already been informed that his father intended to have the Dwarf warrior, skilled with axe and hammer and in combat, teach him martial arts while he was in Lordaeron. The young prince naturally didn't realize his father was laying the groundwork for his future connections. He simply didn't want to embarrass himself in front of his future teacher.

"You three..." The Dwarf warrior glanced at the two children who were about his height, then paused briefly as he tilted his head up to look Varian in the eye. "Ah, Your Highness. Eavesdropping isn't a good habit."

Everyone knew that, besides their short, stocky builds and their care for their beards, Dwarves were famous for their voices, which could outshout a trumpet. Even when they thought they were speaking softly, people on the other side of the street could hear them clearly.

If they kept arguing with him here, the guards nearby would probably have to respond somehow, given who the children were. But if they disturbed the discussions in the meeting room, that would be real trouble. So Alvin admitted their mistake without hesitation.

"Of course, it was just a little accident. I'm sure a powerful and loyal Dwarf warrior wouldn't speak ill of a few children behind their backs, would he?"

After saying that, the boy turned to Varian and Arthas beside him. At his signal, both nodded repeatedly, clearly unwilling to make a bigger fuss.

The three before him were still just children, and the straightforward Dwarf warrior had no desire to make a scene. He waved a hand, his armor plates clanking dully. "All right! Don't let it happen again, you crafty little rascal."

The warm currents of early spring quietly drew the final curtain on late winter. The old carriage wheels rolled along with a rumble, clicking lightly as they bumped over the stones. Together with the steady beat of hooves, the lively burbling of streams in the woods, and the clamor of birds and beasts, it formed a lullaby.

Inside the warm carriage, fitted with a temperature-regulating magic array, Archbishop Faol had already slumped against the soft cushions and fallen asleep. After days of exhausting travel, he hadn't spent long in the palace of Lordaeron before setting off north again with Alvin.

The boy carefully lifted the curtain and studied the orderly band of knights surrounding the carriage, as well as the guests from Stormwind City riding among them: Anduin Lothar, his adjutant Turalyon, and a small group of young soldiers who had fled Stormwind City with them.

"Paladin."

The boy murmured the word softly. His little face, marked by two dark circles, wore a strange expression—excited, yet tinged with regret; disappointed, yet also a little relieved.

According to what the Archbishop had told him, they were heading north to pursue a new class system he had developed six months earlier: the Paladin, the very path the boy had long yearned for.

It was meant to show Priests who lacked the talent for battle and spent all their time praying and praising the Holy Light that fighting was neither lowly nor shameful, and that donning armor and going to war was also a way to praise the Holy Light. It was also meant to let ordinary warriors who believed in the Holy Light but had become Priests due to their aptitude use divine magic and become a force for humanity to resist calamity.

Over the past six months, Archbishop Faol had made progress with the help of his disciple Benedictus and two of Stratholme's most renowned warriors, Uther and Saidan Dathrohan. Next, he would guide the warriors willing to serve Lordaeron and the ordinary Priests who lacked talent in Stratholme onto the path of the Paladin.

But according to Archbishop Faol, this class system wasn't suitable for the boy just yet. Or rather, Priests with exceptional talent had a hard time becoming Paladins—

Advancing into this entirely new class required one to open up heart and mind and commune with the Holy Light. But a Priest with heightened perception like Alvin could sense not only the boundless power of the Holy Light during the ritual, but also the ever-present forces of shadow, making it difficult to succeed. (The setting here is different from the game, so I'm just making things up as I go. Please bear with me and don't flame me.)

On top of that, the boy's body was weak from years of continuous sleep, making it rather unreasonable to expect him to don plate armor and ride into battle as a knight.

To borrow the old man's lecture to the boy—

"When Heaven gives someone one thing, it must take something else away. That's what fate is. Everyone can sense the Holy Light, but not everyone can become a knight blessed by the Holy Light. And Priests are not necessarily weaker than those big, burly knights."