Clad in radiant war-gear, the High Elves shone like living sunlight as they fought Morgoth's black host. Golden light spilled from their ranks, clashing against an ocean of shadow.
North of the elven city, the Ard-galen plain had already been swallowed by flame, reduced to smoking ash.
Among the Dark Host, one presence dwarfed all others.
A golden dragon, vast as a hill.
Each time it exhaled, rivers of fire tore through the battlefield, incinerating entire formations of elven warriors. Its scales were harder than forged steel. Even enchanted arrows struggled to pierce them. Worse still, the creature was cunning. It struck, withdrew, and never lingered long enough to be caught in a coordinated volley.
Against the elves, it was a greater threat than even the Balrogs.
Balrog flames were slower, narrower. Their whips and swords could be dodged by quick-footed elves, and once surrounded, even a Balrog could be contained or slain. Dragons were different. This was the first time the elves had faced such a creature, and they were paying for that ignorance in blood.
Rowan stared up at the beast, genuinely stunned.
"So this is Morgoth's first true dragon," he murmured. "It's enormous."
Compared to it, even the largest dragons from his other worlds seemed almost trivial. Legends like Smaug wouldn't survive a single focused volley from these elves.
A thought sparked.
"If I killed that thing and turned it into a dragon core… would that make me a fire dragon slayer?"
The technique was already etched into his memory. He'd learned it long ago, just in case. Dragons in some worlds were too weak to be worth the effort. This one wasn't.
Forged by a Dark God over centuries, intelligent, taunting its enemies as it burned them alive.
This dragon was more than worthy.
Before Rowan could move, Bregolas roared.
"Charge!"
Eight hundred human warriors surged forward like a blade, slamming into the flank of the orc horde and driving straight toward the elven main line. They weren't as strong as the elves, but they rode with no fear, no hesitation. In war, morale mattered as much as strength.
The elves had been caught off guard. Long years of peace had dulled their readiness. Without this sudden reinforcement, the city would have fallen.
Orcs were dangerous in numbers, but against elite warriors, they were little more than expendable bodies. The human strike punched a hole in their formation, buying the elves precious time to regroup.
Rowan moved.
If he didn't intervene, at least two hundred of those riders would die before reaching the elven line.
"Rain of Light."
A golden sigil flared behind him. Arrows of holy radiance screamed downward, slamming into the orcs turning to intercept the humans. Where the light struck, flesh sizzled and peeled away like it had been doused in acid. Screams tore through the night.
Dark creatures recoiled. Light was their bane. That was why Morgoth had chosen the night and smothered the moon beneath black smoke.
Bregolas stared up in shock. He'd expected aerial support with arrows, not magic that burned through the enemy like judgment itself.
He didn't waste the opening.
"Push through!"
The riders surged forward, spears leveled, trampling and skewering orcs already weakened by light. In minutes, they broke through and reached the elven defensive line. The elves opened ranks and pulled them inside.
There were fewer than two thousand elven warriors left outside the city walls.
Without the human charge and Rowan's intervention, the line would have collapsed.
A horn blared from the Dark Host.
The attack halted.
Orcs fell back. The dragon wheeled higher. Balrogs withdrew into the smoke.
The sudden arrival of human reinforcements had shattered the enemy's rhythm. The elves had recovered, forming disciplined defensive ranks. A continued assault would bleed the attackers for little gain.
This was the dragon's call.
The commander of the central front.
Glaurung.
The Dark Host was divided into three armies. The west answered to Sauron. The east marched under Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs. Morgoth himself remained in Angband, cloaking the battlefield in divine shadow.
Glaurung snarled from above, his voice carrying like thunder.
"Since when do humans wield such power?" he growled. "And that one in the sky… light magic? Did not the Dark Lord say such power belonged only to the Vanyar?"
Fury burned in the dragon's eyes.
If not for those humans, the city would already be his.
Two more hours, and the central front would have fallen.
The Dark Lord's reward would have been his.
Now, the night stretched on.
And the battle had only begun.