The awestruck group crossed the stone bridge with a pilgrim's reverence, ascending the wide, smooth road until they stood before the towering castle gates.
Up close, the grandeur of the fortress made their hearts race even faster.
Beneath the massive gatehouse, two enormous bronze doors stood open, intricately engraved with scenes from the Battle of Five Armies—elves, dwarves, and men raising their swords in triumph, while orcs and trolls fled in terror. At the very top, a commanding figure rode a dragon, wand raised, unleashing flames like a god of war, dominating the battlefield.
Even a king's palace couldn't compare to this, thought Mayor Larch, swallowing hard.
At the gates, well-dressed villagers greeted the guests with warm smiles.
Larch stared in surprise. Their refined manners and natural elegance made him—a man of noble descent—feel awkward and out of place.
Had he known, the villagers would have been delighted. They had unconsciously mimicked Legolas' graceful demeanor, striving to appear dignified so as not to embarrass Lord Luke.
The unexpected effect was working wonders.
As the carriage passed through the gates, Larch saw a straight white-gravel path lined with lampposts, already glowing despite the lingering daylight.
And the golden and silver trees, visible from afar, now loomed even more majestically.
The golden tree towered over a hundred meters high, its fan-shaped leaves shimmering in the sunset, bathing half the fortress in a radiant glow.
The silver tree, though shorter, coiled like a dragon, its leaves reflecting moonlight, casting the other half in a cool luminescence.
Even without knowing their names, Larch understood—these were no ordinary trees.
"Mayor, we've arrived. You may step down now."
A servant's voice snapped Larch out of his daze. He and Butterbur, the innkeeper, descended the carriage near the fountain.
Villagers led the horses away while others escorted them toward the Great Hall.
Larch's eyes locked onto the golden dragon statue atop the fountain.
That's real gold.
The sheer extravagance made him gulp.
Forcing himself to look away, he followed his guide—only to freeze when he spotted a familiar face.
"Mr. Larch! What a surprise!"
Luke Thompson, now the polished mayor of Hogsmeade, greeted him with a diplomatic smile. "I'm the reception supervisor for tonight's banquet. Welcome as Lord Luke's honored guest."
He turned to Butterbur. "And you, sir! We were about to fetch you from the Prancing Pony ourselves!"
Larch's expression soured.
Years ago, he had used his authority to drive Luke out of Bree. Now, the man stood before him as a trusted servant of Luke—poised, confident, and dangerously well-placed.
If Luke held a grudge…
But Luke merely gestured politely. "You're among the first to arrive. Please, follow me inside to rest."
The Great Hall left them speechless.
White stone walls stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, where thousands of floating candles illuminated the vast space. The roof mimicked the sky outside—blue with drifting clouds and warm sunlight.
Four long tables filled the hall. Dwarves already occupied two, roaring with laughter as they downed ale.
At the head of the room, a raised platform held the high table, centered around a golden throne-like chair.
Magical instruments hovered midair, playing soft melodies—until the dwarves heckled them into switching to livelier tunes.
Some dwarves, finding this hilarious, began shouting conflicting requests. The instruments floundered, producing chaotic noise before finally giving up and bonking the troublemakers on the head.
The hall erupted in laughter.
Larch and Butterbur gaped, feeling like they'd stepped into a realm of wonders.
Luke, unfazed, led them to their seats—near the end of the high table.
Larch bristled.
Why am I seated so far from the center?
He shot Luke a suspicious glare. Is this revenge?
But before he could protest, Luke explained smoothly:
"These seats are reserved for distinguished guests—representatives of Dale's lords, the King Under the Mountain, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and the Lord of the Anduin Vale."
Larch's anger evaporated.
Kings. Lords. Elven royalty.
Suddenly, his measly mayoral title felt insignificant.
He sat down meekly.
Butterbur, meanwhile, grinned at the dwarves guzzling his ale. The more they drink, the richer I get.
In the Amon Sûl Tower, Luke welcomed early arrivals via the Floo Network.
Bilbo came first, bearing Hobbit-brewed malt ale.
Next was Legolas, returning from Mirkwood with a gift from Thranduil—a white-gemmed brooch, enchanted to grant the wearer harmony with forests.
Beorn followed, presenting a barrel of royal jelly from his prized bees—a potent stamina booster.
Then came Bard of Dale and Fíli, representing Thorin.
Luke wasn't surprised Thorin hadn't come—but sending his heir was a diplomatic gesture.
As he guided them to the hall, the Floo flared again.
"Arwen?" Luke blinked.
"Not welcome?" She arched a brow, her starlit eyes gleaming.
Luke laughed. "Just unexpected. Did you come from Rivendell or Lothlórien?"
"Rivendell." She brushed soot off her sleeves with a frown.
A quick Scouring Charm fixed that.
"Your Floo Powder is brilliant," she admitted, "but the soot is dreadful. I have to bathe after every trip between Rivendell and Lothlórien."
Luke smirked. "Nothing's perfect, right?"
"True." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "But I suspect you enjoy seeing me disheveled."
"Slander!" He raised his hands in mock defense. "Though if you'd like, I could teach you the cleaning charm."
"Deal."
Before they could shake on it, Elladan and Elrohir tumbled out of the Floo, eyeing their playful exchange with suspicion.
"Luke's teaching me magic!" Arwen announced.
The twins perked up. "Us too! We've mastered the spells you taught us last time!"
Luke grinned. "Stay a few days after the feast. I'll show you more."
Their cheers were cut short as the Floo roared again.
"Lord Elrond?!"
The Elf-lord stepped out, smiling mysteriously. "I'm not the last guest. Someone far greater comes."
Luke's breath hitched.
Then—
The flames shimmered, and Galadriel emerged.
No dust dared touch her.
Clad in white, her silver-gold hair luminous, she radiated an otherworldly grace.
"Luke," she said, her voice like a melody. "We meet again."