The Werewolf's sudden outburst caught Luke by surprise, but it didn't stop his pursuit.
"Sulond, after it!"
The giant eagle let out a piercing cry, its wings slicing through the air as it streaked toward the fleeing Werewolf. No matter how fast the beast was, it couldn't outpace an eagle in flight.
Sulond quickly closed the distance, its razor-sharp talons reaching for the Werewolf. As if it had eyes in the back of its head, the beast twisted sideways at the last moment, narrowly avoiding the eagle's grasp.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Luke, mounted on the eagle, hadn't been idle. His attack was already in midair, timed perfectly with the Werewolf's dodge. The Killing Curse, glowing emerald, struck the Werewolf head-on.
A shriek of pain erupted as several spirits were forcibly ripped from the Werewolf's body, dissipating instantly. Yet, the Werewolf only faltered for a split second before resuming its frantic sprint, seemingly unharmed.
"That didn't kill it?" Luke's eyes widened in disbelief. He had been confident in the curse's lethality. But now he realized: the Werewolf had devoured hundreds of spirits, meaning its body housed countless souls. The Killing Curse worked by severing the soul from the body, but here, it had only expelled a few lesser spirits, leaving the primary demonic spirit intact.
Since the Killing Curse was ineffective, Luke wouldn't waste more magic on it.
Meanwhile, seeing Luke and the eagle closing in again, the Werewolf suddenly howled into the distance. Moments later, a dozen answering howls echoed from the forests of the North Downs.
"More Werewolves?" Luke frowned, glancing toward the source of the cries.
Soon, over a dozen massive, ox-sized Werewolves converged, clearly under Sköll's command. Not giving them time to regroup, Luke swung Glamdring, sending a scorching arc of fire toward the nearest Werewolf.
The blade cleaved through the beast, splitting it in two at the waist. Flames engulfed its body as it let out a bloodcurdling scream, joined by an even more piercing shriek from the evil spirit within. The spirit, now without a host, burst forth as a plume of black smoke.
Meanwhile, the Werewolf's corpse, bereft of its possessing spirit, rapidly decayed as if time itself accelerated, crumbling into ash amid the flames. The disembodied spirit, unable to survive alone, began dissipating, until Sköll lunged forward and swallowed it whole.
Instantly, its aura intensified, its body swelling in size.
Luke's expression darkened. By killing one Werewolf, he'd inadvertently strengthened Sköll. Now the beast housed two major spirits, making it even more formidable.
For a moment, Luke hesitated, slaying more Werewolves would only feed Sköll further. But leaving them alive meant being swarmed. He felt trapped in a lose-lose situation.
Then he noticed something: Sköll, though more powerful, was moving sluggishly, its coordination off. There was a flaw in its plan. A Werewolf's body was meant to host only one spirit, ensuring perfect synchronization. Sköll had previously devoured hundreds of lesser wraiths, but those were insignificant compared to its primary spirit, easily suppressed.
But now, with a second major spirit inside, the two were locked in a subconscious struggle for dominance. Though the weaker one was temporarily subdued, the conflict was causing Sköll's erratic movements.
A plan formed in Luke's mind. A cold smirk curled his lips. "You want more spirits? Let me help you with that."
No longer holding back, he wielded both wand and glamdring. With one hand, he conjured obstacles to hinder the Werewolves; with the other, he unleashed waves of fire and slicing wind blades.
Sulond, too, dove into the fray, snatching up Werewolves with steel talons, crushing their skulls with its beak.
One by one, the Werewolves fell, their spirits erupting as black smoke, wailing like banshees. And just as Luke predicted, Sköll, whether from the chaos of its dual spirits or sheer greed, began devouring the freed spirits.
With each one consumed, its power surged, its dark aura thickening like ink, radiating a suffocating, dread-inducing presence. The very sky darkened in response, clouds churning ominously.
But Sköll's once-cunning eyes now flickered with madness, its expression torn between rage and agony. Over a dozen major spirits and hundreds of wraiths now warred inside it, each vying for control. What had once been a manageable struggle had become a full-scale rebellion.
"Silence!" Sköll roared, its voice a guttural snarl. "Defy me, and we all perish!" The threat momentarily quelled the internal uprising.
But Luke had no intention of letting them unite. His wand flashed. "Imperio!"
The curse struck true. Instantly, the spirits within Sköll erupted into frenzy, their fragile truce shattered. Every limb, every muscle, even its eyes twitched under conflicting commands, one spirit forcing a step forward, another yanking it back. Sköll stood frozen, a puppet with a hundred tangled strings.
"Now!"
Luke leaped from Sulond's back, driving glamdring deep into Sköll's skull. He channeled his magic, unleashing everything the blade held—Basilisk venom, Fiendfyre, the Light of Eärendil, even the power of Vilya.
Sköll's life force snuffed out instantly, the fire in its eyes dying. A chorus of unearthly shrieks erupted from its corpse as the trapped spirits wailed in fury, their cries piercing the soul. Luke yanked the sword free, flipping backward to put distance between himself and the body.
Just in time, black smoke erupted from Sköll's remains, the spirits swirling desperately, seeking new hosts. But Luke was ready. His Patronus surged forth, forming an immense barrier that trapped every last wraith.
From his pouch, he drew a crystal vial, unleashing the Light of Eärendil. The holy radiance washed over the spirits, dissolving them like snow under sunlight.
As the final wraith dissipated with a dying screech, Luke pocketed the vial with a wince. The Light wasn't infinite, every use diminished its reserves. He'd only resorted to it to avoid further complications.
Turning back, he saw Sköll's corpse reduced to smoldering ash. Yet despite his victory, Luke felt little triumph.
This battle had been unlike any before, spirits and possessed Werewolves were immune to conventional spells and physical attacks, forcing him to improvise. It made him wary of his next goal: the Paths of the Dead, where he sought the Sulfur of Souls.
Unlike Aragorn, he carried no Isildur's blood to command the wraiths. And ghosts feared neither the Killing Curse nor ordinary weapons, they were already dead, beyond such harm. Nor could they be fought like Wraiths or Werewolves.
Shaking his head, Luke pushed the thought aside. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.
Mounting Sulond once more, he returned to the goblin caves. After all this effort, his only reward had been the "Dark Mark" spell from the system. The encounters with wraiths, goblins, and Werewolves had made this first leg of his journey far more troublesome than expected.
The caves, now empty and silent, twisted like a labyrinth. After some searching, Luke found the goblin treasury, only to curse under his breath. Piles of rusted armor, a few chests of copper and silver coins, a handful of gold and jewels.
"Pathetic. A waste of time."
Grumbling, he stashed the meager loot into his expanded pouch and left. The Werewolf den was even worse, just bones and debris.
With a disappointed sigh, Luke left the North Downs, soaring westward. His next destination: Annúminas.
Once the capital of Arnor, the city had declined after the kingdom fractured into Cardolan, Rhudaur, and Arthedain, eventually falling to ruin. Only when Aragorn reunited the kingdoms would it be restored.
The flight took half a day. Soon, Luke spotted a vast lake nestled in a valley, Lake Evendim, or Nenuial, the source of the Brandywine River marking the Shire's border. And beside it, the crumbling majesty of Annúminas.