Boom!
From the deepest heart of the Forodwaith ruins, a monstrous tide of shadow burst forth,black and writhing, like the breath of the abyss itself.
Then came the roar.
A dragon's roar….deep, ancient, and filled with wrath.
Two Cold-drakes, cowed moments ago by the piercing might of Eowenría's mithril siege bolts, now wheeled down from the sky, retreating toward the ruins. The storm clouds split to reveal a far greater shadow rising behind them.
From the ruins' shattered depths emerged another dragon, colossal beyond imagining, its body stretching a full hundred meters from snout to tail, wings vast enough to blot out the dim winter sun.
Upon its back stood a figure sheathed in black armor, his entire being wreathed in tendrils of darkness.
The Witch-king of Angmar.
No longer a half-wraith bound to the shadows, the lord of dread now stood fully incarnate, encased in armor engraved with the runes of Morgoth himself. Around him pulsed the aura of a mythic figure—stronger, sharper, heavier than the very air.
His coming stilled the battlefield. The black horde, battered and broken, rallied in trembling awe.
Across the snowy plain, the surviving Orcs and beasts reformed their lines under the Witch-king's command.
"Shield walls to the fore!"
"Form ranks! Archers, left flank!"
"Cavalry, ready lances!"
Caden, Mundar, Zakri,Lairon, Sigilis, Aragorn, and Cathril gathered swiftly under Kaen's banner, reorganizing their battered host into new battle formations.
The field split as though cleaved by the hand of the Valar themselves.
On one side: darkness, rolling and seething, heavy as smoke.
On the other: light, radiant and pure, spilling from the golden standard of Eowenría.
Two realms.
Two opposites.
Locked in a ballad of blood.
...
The Witch-king's voice, cold and hollow as the wind over tombs, carried across the field.
"Long has it been, Eowenríel. Tell me—how does my new form strike your mortal eyes?"
Kaen raised his gaze. His tone was calm, almost weary.
"I've no words for the shade that fled my sword. Were it not for Sauron's leash around your throat, your spirit would have long since been scattered to the Void."
"Leave now, Witch-king. Return to your ruins, or I shall unmake you once more."
The armored wraith laughed, the sound a dreadful echo of steel upon stone.
"You believe you can defeat me? That your mortal host can stand against the legions of Angmar? You are a king, yes, but even kings fall."
Kaen's eyes gleamed like molten gold.
"You have no choice."
He raised his sword and pointed it forward.
"Advance."
At once, the horns of Eowenría blared.
Thirty thousand warriors roared as one:
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
Their voices shook the air, their march a living storm. Bathed in the light of their king, they pressed forward like a golden tide.
The Orcs faltered. Despite their dark blessings, despite Morgoth's corrupt strength flowing through their veins, they had no faith, no courage to match what they faced.
Their champions, Trolls and Warg-riders, even their towering beasts….had already been torn apart. Even their dragons were faltering, one slain beneath Kaen's blade.
Before the unyielding radiance of Eowenría's host, the black ranks quivered, inching backward step by step.
Light pressed forward.
Darkness recoiled.
...
Then the Witch-king raised his hand.
"Light can never defeat the dark," he whispered, his voice carried on the storm. "For shadow lives within the hearts of men."
Black power erupted from him like a wave. It swept across the plain, a tide of despair and death that clawed into the hearts of Kaen's soldiers.
Visions of ruin filled their minds—corpses of comrades, broken banners, the dying cries of kin. The weight of fear pressed them down, slowing their steps.
Kaen's voice rose above the roar, calm yet thunderous:
"Fear is the gift of life,
but courage is mankind's eternal song."
His words rang in every heart.
The fear ebbed away.
And in its place,flame.
"Courage!" the warriors cried, and surged forward again.
The lines of Orcs broke. Cracks opened in their ranks, and panic began to spread like wildfire.
"Darkness is eternal!" the Witch-king bellowed, raising his blade high.
The black sea of his power rose once more, a tide of shadow rushing toward the light.
But Kaen lifted his sword in reply, his voice as cold as the wind yet burning with truth:
"And since the dawn of time,
wherever light shines, darkness dies."
With a single wordless hum, the air exploded with radiance.
Whummmm!
A flood of gold and silver light burst outward from Kaen, sweeping across the field. The shadow broke before it like night before dawn, and the shrieks of burning Orcs and Trolls filled the air.
Kaen's voice followed, sharp as a clarion:
"Courage and glory!"
Thirty thousand voices answered:
"For Eowenría!"
The charge began.
The light surged forward, unstoppable, holy. The clash of arms became the thunder of creation itself as Kaen's legions met the black host head-on.
"Children of darkness," the Witch-king howled, "stand firm! Fight for your Lord!"
But even as his voice rang out, silver bolts streaked through the air.
Dozens of mithril-piercing arrows tore through the storm, blazing with runes of light. They struck the dragons beside him, one after another.
The rightmost beast shrieked, its body shuddering as arrows tore through its wings and spine. It fell, thrashing, unable to fly. The second dragon, wounded but still alive, fought to remain aloft.
The Witch-king steadied himself upon his mount, but his power faltered. He saw it then—the shimmering wall of light advancing across the snow.
Kaen's army was relentless. His golden standard still flew. His soldiers, though bloodied and weary, did not falter.
The Witch-king's armored hand clenched on his blade. He knew the truth.
The day was lost.
Grinding his teeth, he gave the only command left to him.
"Retreat!"
The Cold-drakes beat their wings, stirring a blizzard as they rose into the blackened sky.
The horn of withdrawal sounded across the plain.
The black tide of Angmar began to ebb, back into the ruins, then northward into the frozen wastes.
Kaen raised his sword high.
"Kill!" cried his warriors, surging forward.
The pursuit was merciless. Orcs fell by the hundreds, Trolls were slain or scattered, and the beasts of darkness were driven back into the far northern wilderness, beyond the ruins, beyond the Ettenmoors, into the deep ice where even the sun dared not shine.
When at last the din of battle ceased, the plain was silent save for the moaning wind.
Then came the sound of victory.
"Hurrah!"
"We've won!"
"Glory to the King!"
"The glory of Eowenría stands eternal!"
Kaen dismounted and looked upon his people. Their cheers warmed his heart, but his gaze lingered on the fallen, the maimed and broken who still reached for their banners with trembling hands. His eyes softened with sorrow.
This victory had been dearly bought.
Angmar had lost thirty thousand soldiers, perhaps forty with the wounded.
Eowenría had lost nearly ten thousand brave souls, another thousand crippled beyond return.
Kaen's heart ached for every one.
But the Witch-king would not mourn. Orcs bred faster than rabbits; Angmar would replenish what was lost before the snows melted.
The Witch-king had endured worse before. Arnor, once a mighty realm, had fallen to his wars. To him, this was but another winter's skirmish.
He had lost a battle, not the war.
And in his cold heart, he whispered into the wind:
"You may defeat me, Kaen Eowenríel,
but time is on my side.
I will break your kingdom, if not you.
for kings die…
but shadows remain."
...
"Lord Kaen!"
Aragorn and the others approached, kneeling before him. The young Dúnedain's face was bright with triumph.
"We've broken the enemy, my lord! Let us strike while the fire burns hot,
let us take the Ettenmoors and finish this war!"
Kaen looked northward, where the storm still brewed. His eyes glimmered with gold, his face calm and grave.
...
T/N:
[Pending bonus chapters of last week, and 2 bonus chapters of this week have all been posted today in this mass chapter release.]
powerstones pleaaseee