Three choices

"Uncle Mait, you must have been working too much lately. You're just stressed," Thassarian teased as he chopped firewood. "Lord Wesley seems perfectly normal."

Mait sat on a stump nearby, his expression troubled. If only that were true. Apart from treating soldiers who complained of dizziness and headaches, he had hardly had any strenuous work lately, and he was getting plenty of sleep every night.

As a physician, he knew perfectly well that there was nothing wrong with his body. Coupled with the mysterious plague that had recently appeared in Lordaeron, that left Mait unable to put his mind at ease.

If he had been alone in the camp, he could have accepted whatever happened to him. But his daughter Sally was here with him, and she was still so young. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself, nor could he face his wife.

And so Mait had no choice but to approach this recruit, who had only recently arrived at the camp and had shown no symptoms of headaches or mental confusion.

Mait's faith was devout enough to earn the protection of the Holy Light, but his spellcasting skills were crude, inferior even to those of an ordinary priest. They were sufficient for assisting with healing, but when it came to fighting, he knew his own limits. If even the others in the First Legion fell, he would be of no use at all.

"Perhaps I'm being oversensitive, but... please believe me. Something really is wrong with this camp. It isn't how it used to be." Mait did not know how to convince Thassarian.

Seeing Mait's expression, Thassarian stopped chopping wood, buried the axe in the stump, and brushed off his hands. He walked over and sat beside Mait, then took two cigars from his pocket and offered him one.

"Want one? My instructor gave them to me before I left the training camp. These are the last two."

"Thank you..." Mait took the cigar and held it between his lips. Thassarian took out a match and lit both their cigars.

"Your daughter-is she the little girl who runs all over the camp every day?" Thassarian blew a smoke ring.

"Yes. Her name is Sally. Since her mother passed away, she's been the only loved one I have left." The hand holding Mait's cigar trembled slightly.

The recruit patted Mait on the back and reassured him. "Uncle Mait, I still think you're worrying too much. The men here are all battle-hardened veterans. Even if we run into orcs, we can handle them."

Mait shook his head, scattering cigar ash onto his robe. "It isn't orcs I'm worried about... Have you heard about the plague spreading through Lordaeron lately?"

"I have, but hasn't our brave prince already taken men to deal with it? Plenty of paladins have arrived in Andorhal recently, too. With them around, there's nothing to fear."

This time, Mait said nothing. He simply stared blankly at the ground, his thoughts unreadable.

Thassarian was not particularly good at comforting people, either. He sighed and stood up. "Uncle Mait, I'm a soldier. Following orders is my first duty."

With that, Thassarian headed back into the camp. But after only a few steps, he stopped and turned his head slightly.

"But protecting the people of Lordaeron is our duty, too."

By evening, the Secret Council Knights had set up a temporary camp. They were now on the border between Tirisfal and West Weald. To reach Andorhal as quickly as possible, Arthas had chosen a minor road, leaving them no choice but to camp in the wooded hills.

Arthas sat beside the campfire, stirring the firewood with a branch. Jaina sat next to him, reading a book on countering necromancy.

"The earliest necromantic spells were discovered during battles against demons. The discoverer was... Meryl Winterstorm, the legendary mage from Emperor Thoradin's era?"

"Arthas, look at this. The description in the book is very similar to the plague we've encountered-demons contaminate food and water by spreading magical diseases, which can even pass directly from person to person through contact.

If infected humans do not receive treatment in time, their corpses rise again after death, driven by a powerful urge to attack the living...

The demons who employ this vile, evil magic are known as Nathrezim, or Dreadlords, terrifying beings from the Twisting Nether. Besides their evil magic, they appear to possess an unusual racial gift

that allows them to hypnotize and beguile opponents who are weak or lack sufficient willpower, or even destroy their souls outright and take possession of their bodies."

Jaina studied the text carefully. The resemblance to what was happening in Lordaeron seemed uncanny. "Could the mastermind behind the plague be a demon? And we can't find him because he's taken over someone else's body and is hiding among us?"

"An excellent guess. That may well be the truth." Arthas had not expected Jaina to deduce Mal'Ganis's identity from a few records.

The praise brought Jaina no joy. "If that's true, our investigation is bound to face serious obstacles... It would be one thing if he chose an ordinary resident, but what if he chose a noble or an officer?"

Given the cunning of the Nathrezim, his choice would undoubtedly make it difficult for Arthas and Jaina to uncover any telltale signs.

Arthas did not know Mal'Ganis's exact whereabouts, either. Under his arrangements and control, this outbreak of the undead plague had already diverged greatly from the original history. He had long since lost the advantage of knowing what would happen next.

Fortunately, the vast net the Secret Council Bureau had cast across Lordaeron was slowly closing in. Members and spies of the Cult of the Damned were being swiftly eliminated. As long as Stratholme and Andorhal remained untouched by the plague, the entire Weald region would face no great danger.

As for Lordaeron's Capital, the demon would certainly not dare hide there. The royal city housed not only the royal archmages, but their mage towers as well.

An archmage's True Sight, cast in advance within their own mage tower, could very well expose a Dreadlord's disguise. A cautious Dreadlord would never take such a risk.

Not to mention the priests Arthas had dispatched from the Church, who were searching the cities for anything suspicious. Staying in any major city under Lordaeron's rule would be suicide for Mal'Ganis.

Once a kingdom went on alert ahead of time, even Nathrezim skilled in concealment and disguise could not avoid leaving some trace. The moment he revealed his location, the city's guards and mages would descend on him and crush him.

Arthas was therefore certain that this Dreadlord was hiding in some small town or military camp. Using the Secret Council Bureau's intelligence, he had already narrowed the search to southern Andorhal.

"Falric, what strongholds does the First Legion garrison south of Andorhal?"

Arthas felt sure that the Dreadlord would not stray too far, because his target was Arthas himself.

"Your Highness, there are many small outposts, but only three major strongholds: the southwestern camp under Lieutenant Colonel Jostar, the southeastern camp under Colonel Brando, and South Camp under Colonel Wesley."

Ignoring the two somewhat peculiar surnames, Arthas continued, "Has anything happened there recently?"

Falric shook his head. "No, Your Highness. At least according to the last reporting cycle, everything was normal at all three locations."

"Everything was normal?" Arthas immediately felt at a loss. These were the camps closest to Andorhal. Would Mal'Ganis really pass over nearby options and go somewhere farther away?

Just then, one of the Secret Council Knights resting nearby spoke up. "Your Highness, if we're talking about strange incidents, I heard a friend from the Church mention something during my time off last week."

"Go on."

"Apparently, the Church of the Holy Light in Andorhal received a report of some strange illness. I believe the physician at Colonel Wesley's camp was the first to notice it. Their army priest inspected the food and water but found nothing wrong. In the end, they classified it as an unknown disease and reported it to the Church for its records."

Arthas considered this briefly before asking, "Do you know the specific symptoms of this illness?"

The Secret Council Knight struggled to recall his friend's words. "If I remember correctly, they were headaches and mental confusion."

"Headaches and mental confusion? Those are very common... But from a magical perspective, they sound like the effects of some kind of mind spell," Jaina reasoned.

Arthas's brow furrowed. "Indeed. Even a common cold can cause symptoms like that. This alone tells us nothing."

"But it's the only lead we have. Should we investigate, Arthas?"

Jaina looked at the prince, waiting for his decision. Arthas rested his right hand against his chin, his expression grave as he weighed the possible gains and losses.

"Is Wesley's South Camp close to Strahnbrad?" After a moment's deliberation, Arthas turned to Falric.

"Yes, Your Highness. It's just over two hours on horseback. A gryphon would be faster-only about thirty minutes."

Strahnbrad, the town on the main road between West Weald and the Alterac Mountains, was precisely where the troops led by his teacher Uther had gone to provide support.

"Jaina, send my teacher a magical letter for me. Tell him we may need reinforcements. Tomorrow, we'll set out to investigate South Camp. If nothing is wrong there, we'll gather troops there and wait for reinforcements."

Mal'Ganis already knew that Arthas had killed Kel'Thuzad, and he also knew that the prince would soon begin tracking him down.

Wherever he was now, he was certain to have made thorough preparations. In the worst case, he might already have taken large numbers of civilians hostage or enthralled a contingent of troops. If so, the dozen or so people with Arthas would be nowhere near enough.

Mal'Ganis had far more tricks at his disposal than Kel'Thuzad. Arthas would not confront him unprepared. That would only cost more lives.