"To arms!"
Thorin Oakenshield's voice rang like a clarion across the battlefield, his golden light blazing ever brighter. The glow that clung to him spread outward, brushing the Elves and Dwarves around him, and with it, the ache of fatigue melted like morning frost.
Thorin charged forward with his eleven legendary Dwarven companions, cutting deep into the writhing sea of Orcs. Ironfoot warriors surged behind them, roaring with fury, defending the king of Durin's line with blood and steel.
In the chaos of the melee, Dáin and Thorin met, laughing, and embraced amid the carnage.
"Ah, my cousin—by Mahal, it's good to see your face again."
Dáin said nothing of Thorin's earlier retreat into Erebor. His heart was not given to petty wounds.
Thorin smiled. "The blood of Durin binds us, always."
Dáin looked him over and blinked in surprise. "You're glowing, cousin. Like Kaen himself."
"That is Kaen's light," came Saruman's voice, sharp and clear.
Gandalf turned his keen eyes upon Thorin. "Explain it to us, Thorin. How did you come by his light?"
Thorin's voice grew quiet, reverent.
"It was the Arkenstone..."
And he told them what had passed in the silent halls of Erebor—how, at the height of his struggle against the dragon within, the Arkenstone Kaen had returned to him had flared with radiant brilliance. That light had seared through the shadows in his heart, shattered the madness, and restored his reason.
Saruman nodded slowly. "Indeed. Kaen's light bears a sacred purity—it is a bane to all things corrupted."
Realization dawned across the faces of all who stood there.
Thranduil spoke, voice even and clear. "Then allow me to congratulate you, King under the Mountain. Though your tongue was sharp before, I know now it was not truly yours—it was the curse that clouded your sight."
Thorin bowed low in acknowledgment.
And yet, even as he straightened, the golden radiance that clung to him began to dim, waning gently until it vanished entirely.
The battlefield was filled with renewed vigor, but not mindless fervor. The joint host of Elves and Dwarves, even with Thorin's arrival, understood their limits. They were exhausted from the relentless assault. A reckless charge now would only mean ruin.
High above the battlefield, Saruman drove his staff into the earth, felling a siege-beast with a flash of power, then sent his voice to all around:
"The gates of Erebor stand open! Fall back and regroup—we make our stand within the mountain!"
Thranduil immediately raised his hand. "Archers! Cover the retreat! Spin-mounted ballistae—fire at will!"
Dáin bellowed, "Fall back! Into the mountain!"
Thorin and his warriors hesitated for only a heartbeat. Though their spirits longed to cleanse the shame of their late arrival with valor, they knew this was no time for pride. So they too withdrew.
Thus, the allied host retreated in bloodied order, step by step, into the mouth of Erebor. There, they turned and readied themselves once more, the mighty gates forming the bulwark of their final defense.
The cost had been severe.
Of the fifteen hundred Elves who had marched from Mirkwood and stood with Thranduil on the southwestern front, only thousand remained.
Of the twenty-five hundred Dwarves of Ironfoot, only fifteen hundred stood.
And now, before them, arrayed like a tidal wave of black iron and rot, stood the enemy—and at its head, a towering wraith cloaked in malevolent shadow.
Khamûl, the Easterling Shade. Once king of men in the distant East, now second only to the Witch-king himself. His presence radiated darkness like heat from a forge, and his blade sang of despair.
He did not order an immediate assault. The narrow gates of Erebor would nullify their numbers. Instead, he called forth the siege trolls.
Great lumbering beasts, ranks of them, lined up with brutal precision. With heavy siege hammers and catapults mounted upon their backs, they began to hurl boulders at the gate.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
The mountain echoed with the sound of their assault.
Khamûl would crush the gates, smash the final defense, and extinguish the last spark of hope in the hearts of the Free Peoples.
….
In the valley below, Dale burned.
The city, already scarred by centuries of ruin and war, now lay in ruin once more.
The Orcs had breached the walls.
The once-mighty battlements, aged and weathered, had not withstood the onslaught of trolls and fire. Cracks had become craters. Gaps had become highways for the enemy.
The streets ran with blood and smoke.
Tower after tower fell. Homes collapsed. Stone turned to rubble.
Gundabad Orcs. Red-Eyed berserkers. Trolls. War-beasts. They poured in like floodwater, engaging in savage street-to-street slaughter with the defenders of the city.
Even the skies were not spared.
Above, black-winged blood bats swarmed, descending like vultures, clawing at any soldier brave enough to look up.
When Kaen had first entered the city with his force,there still had been a sliver of hope.
Now...
Only twenty of the elite guard remained.
The human defenders of Dale had dwindled to a meager three hundred.
Elves stood at a mere six hundred.
And yet...
Upon the tallest tower of Dale, Kaen Eowenríel stood resolute, bathed in golden brilliance.
Natural energy—wind, flame, stone, water—gathered to him from every direction, fusing into his aura. The light did not dim. His body did not fall.
So long as he remained, the defenders held their ground.
Those within the circle of his radiance felt strength return to weary limbs. Wounds closed. Breath came easier. Morale surged like springtide.
To the Orcs, it was suffocating. The light burned them, blistered them, robbed them of will.
And so, with trembling mouths and iron hearts, the defenders shouted as one:
"Eowenríel! Eowenríel!"
Around the tower, they gathered. Here was the last bastion of Dale.
And so the Witch-king raised a black-gauntleted hand.
"Tear down that tower. Destroy their hope."
Beasts obeyed.
Trolls roared.
Blood bats shrieked and swarmed, blotting out the sun as they dove again and again.
So many... Kaen could barely see the sky through them.
His body was trembling. Every breath was a struggle. His eyelids fluttered with fatigue.
He had kept the light burning for too long.
He was falling.
Then—
A voice.
Soft, lilting, gentle as moonlight upon still water.
"My lord... your servant has come at your call."
Hoooooooooooonnnnnggg!
A horn.
From the South.
A note as bright as dawn and as clear as spring.
The sound rolled over the valley and the mountain, pausing even the clash of blades.
Orcs froze.
Elves and men turned to the wind.
From the southern hills, a beam of white light cleaved the dark clouds.
Keer-ee!
A shriek, piercing and beautiful, echoed across the sky.
A great bird soared toward Dale.
Feathers of snow white, wings alight with holy radiance. Darkness fled before it.
And behind it—
Thousands of smaller birds, glowing with the same white fire.
They dove upon the blood bats with savage beauty, tearing them apart with beak and talon. Wings clashed, screams filled the sky, and for once—it was the enemy who panicked.
The lead bird spiraled down at breakneck speed and hovered above Kaen's tower.
With a flash of blinding light, a pillar of brilliance descended from the heavens, engulfing Kaen.
And from within that radiance—
A form took shape.
She descended slowly, silently.
Tall.
Exquisite.
A figure of impossible grace and divine presence.
Long, snow-white hair flowed behind her like a waterfall of moonlight. Her skin shimmered like carved ice. Eyes deep as the starlit sea.
Arms folded in reverence, and behind her—
Wings.
Vast and white, pure and sacred.
Her voice rang like a chime through the hearts of all who heard it:
"I am Artemis, Guardian Spirit of Kaen Eowenríel."