A little west of the Misty Mountains, the twins had taken refuge atop a steep hill overlooking the rocky ambush site. As they hastily bound their wounds, they also struggled to steady their ragged breathing. Below them, chaos reigned.
Without compromising the safety of his cover, the Dread Lord hurled unrepeatable curses in the Dark Elven tongue while barking orders in every direction:
"**********! *******! YOU ********* FOOLS! FIND THEM AT ONCE! USELESS FILTH! *****! "
Despite all his shouting, he did not so much as move his head a fraction beyond the edge of the rock. He was no fool—nor inexperienced enough to underestimate Elven archery. He had just witnessed what Elladan was capable of and had no intention of turning himself into a target before pinpointing their exact position.
At his command, two crossbow-bearing elves stepped into the open, shields raised at head level, advancing with measured caution. When they reached the spot where the twins had last been seen, they began examining the bloodstains on the ground. Especially the blood that had seeped from Elrohir's wounded leg—it formed a vivid crimson trail across the earth, easy to follow.
Tracking the marks, the two crossbowmen slowly approached the hill. As they narrowed their eyes and scanned the rocks above, the whistle of two arrows slicing through the air rang out. Each shaft buried itself directly into their pupils. The Dark Elves collapsed onto their backs in stunned disbelief, dead before they could comprehend what had happened.
Watching this, the Dread Lord felt the hairs on his neck rise. He recoiled instinctively. In that very second, an arrow grazed his helmet, throwing off sparks before embedding itself in the ground behind him. Feeling the cold breath of death brush the nape of his neck, he drew in a slow, steady breath. Gritting his teeth, he peered toward the hill's summit from the edge of the rock.
"Damn it! Time is limited! We must secure them immediately!"
Every passing second increased the risk. Raising his voice to its full force, the Dread Lord issued his final command:
"SURROUND THE HILL AT ONCE! DO NOT LET THEM ESCAPE! TIME IS RUNNING OUT! IF RIVENDELL AWAKENS, IT WILL BE TOO LATE FOR EVERYTHING!"
Meanwhile, a short distance from the battlefield, eight Great Orcs stood watching the events unfold as though observing a play. They made no effort to hide their astonishment. With his arms folded across his chest, trembling faintly with excitement, Guşga let out a crooked chuckle.
"They are certainly opponents worth fighting. They turned this hopeless ambush to their advantage in an instant. Exactly what one would expect from the children of my father's old rival."
The goat-bearded orc nodded in agreement, yet another question occupied his mind.
"…I agree. It surprises me that they brought matters to this point. But what was that flash? Did they use magic? That is what truly interests me…"
The orc clad in Warg fur beside them, gnawing enthusiastically on a massive roasted haunch of beef, interjected:
"No. It was not magic. The elf called Elladan threw a small object into the air. That was what shone."
Guşga narrowed his eyes and turned toward him.
"Are you certain, Uncle Bolgad?"
Bolgad tore off another enormous bite of meat and nodded in confirmation. Guşga shifted his gaze back to the battlefield, contemplating the strange object the elves had used—and how one might counter it.
At that moment, Bolgad lifted another haunch of beef that had been roasting slowly over the campfire and extended it toward his nephew. As Guşga stared at the steaming meat offered to him, Bolgad gave a faint grin.
"You have not eaten properly today. Remember— a true warrior is strongest on a full stomach."
Guşga hesitated briefly, then reached out and took the hot meat from his uncle. With his other hand, he removed the helmet that had been pressing tightly against his face and set it aside. Drawing in a deep breath of clean air, he offered his thanks.
Watching his nephew sink his teeth eagerly into the meat, Bolgad burst into booming laughter.
"Hahahaha! Think nothing of it, lad! Now tell me—when do we set out? I can already smell Jeffrey's famous meat stew."
Jeffrey was the proprietor of a shabby yet warm tavern in one of the human villages under the protection of the Great Orc tribe. Whenever opportunity arose, the orcs would stop by to taste the dishes prepared by Jeffrey and his wife. In truth, it had all begun years ago. This village had been the first settlement the orcs placed under their protection. In those days, Jeffrey's grandfather had boiled an enormous cauldron of stew in gratitude to Gugalat and the Green Raiders for their aid. That day, Gugalat and his company had tasted, for the first time, a true stew—rich with vegetables, fragrant spices, and abundant meat. The flavor had etched itself so deeply into their memories that from then on, the Great Orcs had taken the defense of the village seriously and never severed their bond with human cuisine.
The goat-bearded orc stirred the fire and spoke again.
"Let us wait a little longer before returning to the tribe. Personally, I am very curious to see how this will end. It seems the battle does not have much time left… Bolgad, toss a piece over here as well!"
Miles away from the battlefield, however, an entirely different urgency prevailed.
It had been nearly half an hour since İgris and his team received word from Thoron. The message delivered by the wounded hawk—and the pitiful state of the exhausted bird—had heightened the tension tightening within İgris' chest. Rising slightly in his saddle, he shouted back to his team:
"I AM RIDING AHEAD! WE ARE RACING AGAINST TIME!"
The others understood and nodded in agreement. Doğan responded in a voice loud enough to drown out the wind:
"UNDERSTOOD, MY LORD! GO ON AHEAD—WE WILL BE RIGHT BEHIND YOU!"
After giving a final nod, İgris leaned forward toward his horse's neck. Placing a hand upon Shadowmane's mane, he spoke in a low, steady voice:
"Alright, partner. Your turn now. You haven't run at full capacity in a long time. Show everyone just how fast the Firemane bloodline can truly be."
Smoke practically billowed from Shadowmane's nostrils. There was no trace of his usual mocking, playful demeanor—this time he was genuinely furious, deadly serious. His companion Thoron had been wounded and fallen unconscious, and for the steeds of the twins—whom he regarded as brothers—an inky black unease churned within him. Shadowmane accelerated so violently that, as he ran, his legs became nearly indistinguishable, his form blurring into motion itself.
Watching from behind, Doğan, Bamsı, and Ciri froze in astonishment. None of them had imagined that this strange horse could reach such speed.
Even Snowball stood stunned for a heartbeat, uncertain how to react. As a horse, She had absolute confidence in her own swiftness—but she could not swallow the humiliation of being left behind so effortlessly by this "maniac" beside him. With a surge of pride, she lunged forward.
While Doğan and Bamsı stared in bewilderment, Bamsı panicked and spurred his own mount.
"BORA, DAMN IT! RUN, BOY! AT THIS RATE THERE'LL BE NOTHING LEFT WHEN WE ARRIVE!"
Bora neighed irritably at the pressure, clearly displeased. Doğan merely rolled his eyes.
What the two men did not know was that Ciri was just as shocked as they were. This horse had been a gift from Mephisto—a form of apology for providing incomplete information about the potion. In truth, Ciri herself was only now properly meeting Snowball for the first time. Snowball steadily increased her speed and managed to catch up with İgris and Shadowmane.
Hearing the thunder of hooves through the roar of the wind, İgris turned his head and glanced at the white horse drawing alongside them. He could not hide his surprise—very few horses could match Shadowmane's pace. Ciri looked at him and shrugged as if to say, not my fault. Snowball, meanwhile, cast a sidelong glance at Shadowmane, measuring him. But when he realized his rival did not even bother to look back—remaining utterly focused on the road ahead with grim determination—he was taken aback.
Drawing a deep breath, İgris tried to organize his thoughts.
'Ciri's arrival is fortunate. From Thoron's condition, I can tell Elladan and Elrohir aren't faring well… But the real question is this—why ambush them? Is there something that important about these two? Something special?'
Though İgris possessed knowledge from the modern world, he unfortunately did not recall certain details of Middle-earth clearly—or confused them. Some major events he deemed significant lingered in his mind, yet the detail that Elrond had twin sons had slipped from his memory. He vaguely remembered what had happened to Celebrían, though he was not certain even of that. The System provided him with some data, but it was usually superficial world knowledge. In his eyes, the twins were merely two talented elven brothers hunting or pursuing adventure in Middle-earth. They had not revealed their true identities, and until now, İgris had never felt the need to ask.
As the riders advanced at breakneck speed, several kilometers northwest of Rivendell—just above the Trollshaws—the air over the rocky open terrain was thick with tension.
The elven army under Elrond's command had positioned itself atop a high hill, gazing down at the legion before them. Clad in armor blending tones of gray and gold, the elves stood tall and unyielding. Some bore heavy armor, others light, yet all were divided into companies of one hundred, waiting in perfect discipline. Spear-and-shield units formed an impenetrable double line at the front. Just behind them stood masters of the sword, and at the rear, archers held their drawn bows ready. On the far edges of the right and left flanks, two cavalry divisions waited, poised for battle.
At the forefront of the army stood Elrond, his brows furrowed as he surveyed the mass before him.
'…Uruk-hai, orcs, Great Orcs… Gugalat is nowhere to be seen. Nor is the emblem of his tribe—so he has not joined this battle… Yet before us stands a fully formed legion, nearly five thousand strong…'
Fixing his keen eyes deeper into the legion's ranks, Elrond began identifying the creatures hidden among the formations one by one.
'Two manticores, twenty mountain trolls, one ogre…'
He exhaled slowly. The morning had begun peacefully enough, yet now he stood on the brink of war. He would have preferred to spend quality time with his beautiful daughter, to share moments with his wife, to converse with Gandalf, or even to busy himself avoiding Galadriel's piercing insight—mundane concerns of daily life. Instead…
His brows tightened further.
'Why have the black orcs moved so suddenly? Since the fall of Arnor, they have been buried in deep silence… There is an ill omen here—a foreboding I cannot name.'
Elrond did not rush to make the first move. He was keenly aware of the powerful creatures within the enemy ranks. Thus, he chose to maintain the strategic advantage granted by the high ground and wait.
On the opposing side, at the very front of the legion, rode a figure clad from head to toe in black armor atop a warg slightly larger than usual. Shorter than a Great Orc yet taller than a common orc, his skin bore a sickly blend of black and purplish hues. His presence was imposing, terrifying. In Middle-earth, he was known as the Heart-Eater.
He knew Elrond watched him from the hill. Despite the distance between them, he fixed his gaze upon the elven lord. The two stood locked in a silent duel, weighing one another without a single word.
The Uruk-hai and orcs within the legion stood like disciplined soldiers in heavy armor. With thick shields and spears, they displayed a seriousness no less rigid than the elves' formation. On the flanks, warg riders arranged themselves in wedge formations, like a storm poised to erupt at a single command. At the rear, archers held their bows taut.
At the very center of the legion stood the Great Orcs, each armored in their own distinctive style, armed with varied weapons, waiting calmly. Among them towered an Ogre nearly four meters tall—massive and fur-covered. With half-plate armor covering his torso and a colossal metal mace in hand, he growled continuously toward the enemy lines.
In the front ranks, directly behind the Heart-Eater, stood twenty armored rock trolls. Hardened by years of brutal training, they were living tanks. Their already thick, hardened hides were further reinforced with heavy plate armor. At three meters tall, they radiated oppressive force—though even they were not as terrifying as the manticores restrained on the right and left flanks.
With scorpion tails, lion-like manes, and iron armor, the manticores were true engines of death. Crouched obediently upon the ground, they growled toward the elves but dared not make a single wrong move. Trained mercilessly since infancy, these beasts were like loyal hounds of slaughter. Unless the Heart-Eater gave the command, they would not stir.
And their leader had no intention of breaking his silence until the signal he awaited arrived.
As the Heart-Eater stared toward the horizon, his thoughts drifted back into the past.
— Flashback —
In the throne room, shadowed by massive stone walls and thick columns carved with crude craftsmanship yet bearing a peculiar elegance of their own, the Heart-Eater knelt in silence. A few steps above him rose an iron throne engraved with intricate skull motifs. Upon it sat a formidable Black Great Orc, radiating an aura of unshakable dominion as he gazed downward without a word. At his side lay two savage wargs—far larger than their common kin, their fur pitch-black. Though silent, they remained coiled with tension, as if ready to lunge at any moment. Along both sides of the steps stood Great Orcs clad from head to toe in heavy black armor, arranged with the rigid discipline of statues. Even from their posture alone, one could sense the severity of their training and how their presence weighed upon the air, thickening it.
The Heart-Eater broke the silence with his rasping, harsh, resonant voice:
"What are your orders?"
The leader upon the iron throne replied, his deep and frigid tone carrying unmistakable authority in every syllable:
"Our Supreme Lord Tar-Mairon has entrusted us with a sacred task… For this mission, the most suitable candidate at present is you, Khorgul."
At the sound of his master's name, Khorgul flinched. To show greater reverence, he lowered himself fully onto both knees and bowed his head even further. In complete submission, he asked:
"What does our Supreme Lord command, Lord Morkarh?"
Morkarh continued, the profound respect he bore for his master resonating clearly in his voice:
"The Supreme Lord wishes you to go to Rivendell. You will distract the cunning leader of those wretched elves—Elrond—and delay him as much as possible. That is his command."
Khorgul lifted his head, overwhelmed with awe at being honored with such a task. Tears streamed from his eyes as his voice trembled with fanatic devotion, longing, and boundless loyalty:
"If the Supreme Lord wills it, I am ready to die on this path! If necessary, I will give my life there and drag that vile elf leader down with me! To sacrifice my life for our Lord is the greatest honor!"
After observing this display of devotion, Morkarh gave a slight nod.
"Our Lord would appreciate your loyalty, Khorgul. But remember—he does not wish to lose a valuable general. Our enemies are not only elves and dwarves; we also face the Dark Elves. Though we have forged a temporary alliance with them, you know well that either side may stab the other in the back at any moment. Furthermore, we contend with vampires, werewolves, and the walking dead, among many other rivals. Our Lord has made it clear that he does not wish even a single general to be squandered needlessly. Therefore, you must return alive. Your task is solely to divert Elrond's attention."
Understanding the importance of the strategy, Khorgul nodded firmly.
"I understand, my lord."
Raising his hand in a heavy, deliberate motion, Morkarh delivered his final command. His authoritative, booming voice echoed against the stone walls of the hall:
"Go now! The 3rd Legion is under your command. Wait until the signal comes—when it does, occupy Elrond. Do not do anything foolish! Everything must unfold exactly as our Supreme Lord desires…"
— End of Flashback —
Breaking free from the dusty remnants of memory, Khorgul focused entirely on the present. He intended to execute this critical mission flawlessly, to prove worthy of the trust placed in him. Deep within, he longed to strike Elrond down there and then—to claim the head of that proud elf lord—but he was no fool. He knew how pride could drag a man—or an orc—into ruin. The being before him was no mere commander of troops; he was an ancient elf who had once stood against his very master and disrupted his most intricate designs.
As Khorgul narrowed his eyes and surveyed the opposing hills, he noticed another rider gliding through the elven ranks toward Elrond. Unlike the soldiers, this rider wore not battle armor but an elegant, flowing robe, and in his hand he carried a long, finely adorned staff. Despite the distance, Khorgul immediately recognized him.
'The wizard of Rivendell…'
On the other side, Elrond felt the cool wind brushing against his face, remaining remarkably calm. Without even turning his head toward the rider who had approached him, he spoke in a low yet clear voice:
"My apologies for disturbing you, Master Lindir."
Lindir was a strikingly handsome elf wizard, with long golden hair, silver-glinting eyes, and a dignified expression upon his face. He was several centuries older than Elrond, and that experience reflected in every measured movement he made. Holding his staff—engraved with delicate runes—firmly in hand, he gazed at the opposing army and released a deep, reproachful sigh. He was clearly far from pleased.
"…Since morning, I had been engaged in a delightful discussion with Lady Galadriel regarding our ongoing projects and ancient magics, accompanied by the marvelous nectar prepared by the masters of Rivendell… I was receiving priceless counsel from her. We had just reached the most critical, most decisive point of our debate when this erupted. Truly abysmal timing!"
When he finished his complaint, he turned his gaze to Elrond and asked with curiosity:
"So, what are we doing now?"
Without allowing his focus to stray from the enemy ranks for even a second, Elrond replied:
"…We wait. I want them to make the first move."
Lindir raised his brows in surprise.
"And why is that?"
Elrond answered thoughtfully, uncertainty flickering faintly beneath his composure.
"…I am not certain. There is an unease within me I cannot explain. Their numbers may not be overwhelming, but they are certainly not weak."
Lindir turned his head and examined the enemy legion again with a professional eye.
"…You are right. Though their numbers are limited, their balance of power is more than sufficient. Will you not call for reinforcements?"
Elrond paused briefly and surveyed the surrounding terrain. Then he slowly nodded and drew a silver whistle from his belt. The whistle was small and exquisitely crafted in the shape of a bird, each feather detailed like a miniature work of art. Taking a deep breath, Elrond blew into it. A faint resonance spread through the air—not a sound meant for human ears or even those of ordinary elves, but a frequency that rippled outward silently.
The warriors heard nothing.
Yet the manticores beside the legion suddenly roared in agitation, clawing at their ears as though assaulted by an unbearable shrill.
Replacing the whistle at his side, Elrond turned to an elven major waiting directly behind him and issued an authoritative command:
"Sound the horn."
The major nodded in affirmation, filled his lungs with air, and blew the horn with force. Its sound echoed across the entire valley, rolling over the hills until it reached the opposing ranks. The moment the horn's call faded, a ripple—an unmistakable wave of unrest—spread through the orc legion; for they knew all too well what would follow such a signal. Before long, from the depths of the dense forest stretching behind the elves, a sky-piercing shriek rose into the air. As the orcs tensed, the monstrous units within the legion snarled and strained forward, eager to charge.
The colossal trees within the forest suddenly began to move as though they had come alive, swaying violently from side to side. The tremor crept steadily closer to the battlefield. At last, the shrill cry sounded much nearer, and from between the trees emerged a towering tree-man walking upon two legs, nearly seven meters in height. He released a thunderous roar toward the legion, one that shook the earth beneath him.
Witnessing this sight, the Heart-Eater Khorgul furrowed his brows and muttered to himself:
"Tree-men…"
The tree-man bore spiral, rune-like markings glowing faintly upon his chest and head. His skull was crowned with horn-like protrusions, and thick, jagged branches extended outward from his massive trunk. With ponderous steps he moved from the forest's shadow into the light of day. Pink blossoms blooming among his branches formed a strange contrast against his immense and fearsome appearance. Close behind him, two more ancient tree-men of similar form glided forward through the trees. These beings were primordial creatures who had once fallen into the forests of the Sindar and the High Elves in ages long past, taken root there, and endured—ancient entities that did not truly belong to this world. They usually sank into deep slumber in the most secluded corners of the forests, rarely awakening unless the lands they dwelled in suffered grave harm. Yet between them and the Elves existed a deep, indescribable bond, ancient as the roots of the world.
When the Elves wished to speak with them or ask for aid, they could rouse these colossal allies from their sleep. Unlike the Ents, they did not engage in endless debates that stretched for hours; if nature or their friends were in danger, they would crush whatever stood before them without hesitation. Once the Elves called for help—as they had now—the tree-men moved without doubt or delay. The three ancient beings advanced with unshakable calm until they reached the slope of the hill where the elves had taken position. Riding their horses forward, Elrond and Lindir stepped out to greet their primordial allies. Elrond spoke first:
"Forgive me, my friends, for waking you from your slumber."
The foremost tree-man inclined his immense body slightly forward and replied, his voice echoing like a rumble rising from deep beneath the soil:
"Friend. Elrond. Talkative. Lindir."
At the manner in which he was addressed, Lindir's brows twitched in anger; his hand flew to his staff.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY! Say that again, you overgrown tree root!"
Yet the tree-man ignored Lindir's small outburst entirely and continued:
"Not. Problem… Friends. Exist. To. Help."
Then he slowly turned his massive head toward the orc legion opposite them. The ancient gaze within his eyes swept across the enemy ranks from one end to the other.
"The big ones. Leave. To. Us. When. You. Move. We. Will. Move."
Elrond nodded with deep gratitude at this offer.
"Thank you, dear friend."
The tree-man's reply was brief and plain:
"Not. Important."
At that very moment, on the opposing side, a bat swooped swiftly through the air toward Khorgul's position. Hearing the flutter of wings, the orc leader raised his arm to allow the creature to land. The bat gripped Khorgul's forearm tightly with its sharp claws and hung upside down, emitting strange chittering sounds. With his free hand, Khorgul tore off the note tied to the creature's leg and unfolded it. Upon the parchment, written in the Black Speech, stood the single word that would change everything:
'BEGIN.'
After giving a brief nod of acknowledgment, Khorgul watched as the bat beat its wings and vanished from sight. Drawing in a breath deep enough to fill his lungs, he seemed to inhale the weight of the impending cataclysm itself. Then, raising his heavy weapon high into the air, he roared with all his strength in the grating tones of the Black Speech:
"TO WAR!"
Khorgul's voice echoed across the barren plain, striking every rock as it spread. The moment the legion heard their leader's command, they erupted as if with a single throat—a colossal roar infused with exhilaration, fury, and raw excitement. The sound, torn from more than five thousand throats, was powerful enough to make the earth tremble.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR X 5000+
Elrond frowned at the deafening uproar rising before him. From the very beginning, he had carefully observed the bat that came and went; the sudden eruption of that war cry had confirmed his suspicions. The enemy had certainly been waiting for a signal.
But for what?he wondered.
The enemy ranks moved at once. The orcs of the legion advanced in flawless discipline, locking their shields together and forming the tortoise formation known as "testudo," marching forward with heavy steps. The archers swiftly took position in two lines, nocking their arrows. The true destructive force of the siege—the Great Orcs, rock trolls, manticores, and massive ogres—began to charge, shaking earth and sky alike. Just behind them, warg riders surged forward in a storm of dust.
Seeing this, Elrond pulled hard on his reins and spurred his horse toward the hilltop, roaring in Elvish:
"Prepare yourselves! Draw your bows!"
The spear-and-shield-bearing elven soldiers waiting on the front lines reinforced their positions to receive the impact. The archers nocked their arrows and drew their bows taut, the entire army moving in seamless coordination like a single, perfectly engineered mechanism. When the bowstrings were pulled to their furthest limit, Elrond gave the awaited command:
"LOOSE!"
Hundreds of archers released their fingers at the same instant. The sky was suddenly swallowed by a dense cloud of arrows rising from the elven ranks. A second later, that deadly rain descended upon the rapidly advancing legion. The great orcs halted abruptly and raised their shields above their heads; those without shields scrambled desperately behind the protection of others. Not all were so fortunate. The arrows fell upon them like a merciless hailstorm; the metallic clang of shafts striking shields filled the plain. Some great orcs were struck in the head, shoulder, or leg and collapsed to the ground.
Meanwhile, the orc units advancing beneath the shield wall continued almost unharmed; the arrows either embedded themselves in the shields or glanced off and fell uselessly to the earth. The mountain trolls did not break formation in the slightest. Thanks to their hardened hides and thick plates of armor, the arrows bounced off ineffectively, only a rare few managing to lodge shallowly into their flesh. The ogre, clad head to toe in armor, paid no heed to the volley and continued forward with massive, earth-shaking strides. The manticores fared similarly; although a handful of arrows slipped through gaps in their armor, they failed to pierce deep enough to inflict serious wounds. Those who suffered most from the first volley were the warg riders. When the rain of arrows descended upon them, many riders and wargs alike were struck, stumbling and falling beneath the trampling feet of those behind them. Yet the survivors pressed forward without slowing, charging with relentless fury.
Seeing that the enemy did not falter, Elrond raised his voice once more:
"LOOSE!"
Without wasting a moment—before the dust and smoke of the first volley had even settled—Elrond ordered the second. The sky rang again with a deadly whistling chorus. At the same time, the orc archers drew their own bows and returned fire in kind. Hundreds of arrows launched from both sides seemed to clash midair; some collided and fell, while the rest continued onward toward their intended targets.
Yet just as the orc arrows began to descend upon the elves, Lindir intervened. Whispering a swift incantation, he raised his staff high. Instantly, an invisible wall of furious wind formed before them, deflecting every incoming orc arrow and rendering them harmless. The orc archers stared in stunned disbelief; they felt the injustice of it, sensed how sorcery had turned the tide against them. But they had no time to dwell on it, for the elves' rain of arrows fell once more upon their heads, and the orc ranks continued to suffer heavy losses.
At that very moment, enormous boulders began crashing down into the very center of the orc detachments advancing slowly in testudo formation. The three tree-men were tearing massive stones from the surrounding terrain and hurling them at the orcs with tremendous wrath. Under these colossal impacts, several orc units began to scatter and lose cohesion. Once the shield wall was broken, fresh waves of arrows fell in three successive surges upon the exposed and unbalanced orcs.
The first to reach the base of the hill were the warg riders. Though their numbers had been cut nearly in half by the arrow storms, they were still numerous—and deadly. Elrond ordered his archers to target the creatures climbing directly up the slope. Arrows tore through the air again, and several more wargs fell with cries of agony. While the archers maintained pressure on the main orc force, Elrond gave the long-awaited command to his cavalry. The elven riders spurred their horses downhill at great speed, lowering their lances forward. Within seconds, the cavalry unit collided violently with the wargs. Lances pierced through orc riders, while the wargs lashed out with teeth and claws against both horses and riders alike. With that first brutal contact, the battle began in its full savagery.
At the same time, Kili had escorted the elven group led by Vaelor to the very entrance of Rivendell. Upon beholding the elegant architecture intertwined seamlessly with nature and the tranquil valley beyond, Vaelor and the elves at his side stood in silent admiration of Rivendell's enchanting atmosphere. The Rivendell guards had already noticed the approach of a large elven company and reported it to Lady Celebrían and her daughter Arwen. Mother and daughter were quite surprised by these unexpected visitors. Elves—especially in such numbers—always sent word before visiting another city; to arrive unannounced was either a grave discourtesy or the sign of urgent necessity.
With her husband Elrond away at war, Celebrían stepped forward as Lady of Rivendell to receive the newcomers; Arwen stood beside her, graceful as ever. Lady Galadriel observed the events calmly from the balcony of her chamber. As Lady of Lothlórien, she preferred not to interfere in Rivendell's internal affairs and chose only to watch with quiet curiosity. In truth, her mind was heavily preoccupied with Igris; like Gandalf, she had been examining the details that had escaped notice in recent times, uncovering subtle clues yet still unable to reach a definitive conclusion. Gandalf himself, gazing down from his own balcony, was surprised to see Kili guiding the group. Yet what truly caught his attention was the equipment and bearing of the arriving elves—unlike any elven company he had ever seen before.
When the group entered, Kili turned to Vaelor and spoke:
"All right, you're on your own now. I need to meet my uncle immediately and tell him about Igris' situation."
Vaelor nodded in acknowledgment and replied:
"Understood, but there is no need for you to provide support."
Kili paused at this unexpected statement and asked curiously:
"Why?"
Vaelor chuckled softly, adjusting Elaria more comfortably on his back before answering with absolute confidence:
"Because we have sent our third commander along with fifty elite members of our group. Unless they are facing a massive army, they will deal with the enemy easily."
Kili fell silent for a moment. His gaze swept over the disciplined, resolute stances of the elves around him. Though he was a dwarf, unlike many of his kin he harbored no blind hatred toward elves. With a warrior's eye, he had already recognized how capable each of these elves was. Even so, he chose his words with caution.
"I understand… But I will still inform my uncle of the situation. And I must also tell Igris' companions what has happened; after all, I consider them my teachers."
Vaelor inclined his head.
"I understand. As you wish."
Kili nodded and quickened his pace. Passing beneath the stone arch, he ignored the elves waiting there, offering only a respectful nod to Celebrían and Arwen out of courtesy. The two ladies acknowledged his greeting, watching his hurried manner with curiosity, while the surrounding elves murmured in dissatisfaction.
"Rude creature…"
"Who does he think he is?"
"You can't expect more from a dwarf anyway."
As the Rivendell elves continued muttering under their breath behind Kili's back, they also cast wary, furrowed looks at the newly arrived group. The strange condition of the visitors had drawn everyone's attention. Why were some of these elves carrying others on their backs? Moreover, though those being carried appeared unconscious, there were no visible wounds upon them. The design of their armor and the weapons they bore resembled nothing the Rivendell elves had ever seen. Not only those in the courtyard, but also Gandalf and Galadriel—watching from separate balconies above—leaned forward with the same mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
Galadriel in particular felt a sudden disturbance the moment the group passed beneath the stone arch and stepped into the valley. She frowned slightly, shaken by the surge of emotions that pressed down upon her. The tranquil atmosphere in the air abruptly gave way to a flood of fear, despair, pain, sorrow, and an indescribable fury. Guided by this inexplicable unease, Galadriel focused her mind upon one of the unconscious elves and slipped gently into his thoughts. What she saw shocked her. Deep within his mind were the scars of systematic humiliation, decades of torment, and every manner of violation—inflicted by beings she had never before encountered, beings who had reshaped elves into something else. It was the unmistakable evidence of a dark process designed to erase a people's identity with ruthless precision. When she turned her focus to another unconscious elf, she found a similar devastation. As her brows knit tighter and she drifted deeper into that sea of anguish, Vaelor calmly crossed the stone bridge and stopped directly before Celebrían and Arwen.
Celebrían stepped forward with the noble grace befitting Rivendell and spoke first.
"Welcome. I am Celebrían, wife of Elrond, Lord of Rivendell." She then gestured to Arwen at her side. "And this is my daughter, Arwen."
Arwen offered a polite smile and inclined her head, yet unease grew within her. The source of that feeling lay in Vaelor's eyes—something dark and unfathomably deep that she could neither name nor fully comprehend. Vaelor drew a steady breath in response to their courteous reception and spoke without losing his respect.
"I apologize for any disturbance we may have caused, my ladies…"
Celebrían answered in a calm, reassuring tone.
"You cause no disturbance. On the contrary, the gates of Rivendell are always open to friendly guests. However, forgive my curiosity—what brings you here? And what has happened to your companions in this unconscious state?"
Vaelor hesitated briefly, as though carefully selecting his words. Then he continued evenly.
"We have come here because of Lord Igris… We intend both to speak with him and to find the healing he told us could be found here."
At the mention of that name, Celebrían and Arwen exchanged startled glances. Unable to restrain her curiosity, Arwen asked:
"Then where is Igris? And what exactly is this healing you seek here?"
Vaelor met Arwen's eyes directly as he replied. Feeling the depth within that gaze, Arwen experienced another faint shiver.
"Lord Igris was bringing us here, but along the way he learned that two of his elven companions had fallen into an ambush in the southeast. The moment he received the news, he departed swiftly with three of his friends."
Celebrían's brows drew together sharply. An unexplainable dread gripped her heart. In a composed yet subtly strained voice, she asked:
"Who are these two elves? If our kin are in danger, we must send support immediately!"
Vaelor gave a slight shrug, indicating his uncertainty.
"Believe me, my lady, I do not know. Lord Igris left too quickly to give their names. However, the wounded hawk who brought the message is with us now… Lord Igris addressed the hawk by the name Thoron."
The instant the name "Thoron" left Vaelor's lips, Celebrían's eyes widened and her body jolted with shock. Her knees nearly gave way; she had to grasp the nearby column to steady herself. Arwen turned pale as marble. Similar murmurs rippled through the elves gathered in the courtyard who recognized the name. After all, Thoron was their prince's dearest companion…
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