[500 powerstones Bonus Chapter]

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Of the nineteen Rings of Power, only the Three crafted for the Elves remained untouched by the corruption of the Dark Lord Sauron. Thus, they were not bound by the power of the One Ring.

The Nine Rings bestowed upon Men, however, had long since enslaved their bearers, turning them into wraiths—servants of the Shadow.

As for the Seven Rings given to the Dwarves: four of their bearers vanished after luring dragons to their lairs with their growing greed; two were reclaimed by Sauron himself.

Only one remained unaccounted for—passed down from Thrain the Old to his son Thráin, who vanished with the ring in his possession.

When Gandalf discovered Thráin imprisoned in Dol Guldur, the Dwarf's ring-bearing hand had already been severed. This grim sign proved what Gandalf had long feared: Sauron now held twelve of the nineteen Rings of Power under his dominion, including the Nine of Men.

And so now, Gandalf stood before the gathered lords, seeking to use this truth to urge them toward action—to support the Dwarves in their coming quest, and to aid the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.

But Saruman, with his usual cold skepticism, dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand.

"Sauron does not possess the One Ring," he said. "No matter how many of the lesser rings he holds, they are worthless without it. It is only the One that rules the others."

Gandalf opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. He found, to his frustration, that he had no answer that would sway them.

Lord Elrond then spoke with calm authority:

"Gandalf, we have lived in peace for four hundred years. That peace did not come easily."

These words struck a nerve.

Gandalf was unlike Elrond, Saruman, or even Galadriel. They ruled realms and watched over borders, entrenched within their sanctuaries. As long as no direct threat loomed over their lands, they did not act. Unless a force rose great enough to endanger all of Middle-earth, their swords remained sheathed.

But Gandalf… he had no fortress. He had no kingdom. He walked the wilds, traveled the villages, and had seen firsthand the horrors wrought by the spawn of darkness.

So at the mention of "peace," his voice rose with sharp anger:

"Peace? You call this peace?" he exclaimed, his tone thunderous. "Trolls descend from the hills to ravage farms and burn villages. Orcs prowl unchecked, spreading terror!"

"Ask Kaen! He and I met last year while fending off an Orc raid on a village."

"Azure Spring City—it was once Azure Spring Town—was the site of Morgoth's dark experiments. Monsters were bred in his name. Elrond, you know this!"

"This past winter, the Orcs of the Misty Mountains poured down along the Bruinen River, laying waste to the lands. How many lost their homes?"

He looked around the stone pavilion, his voice echoing in the silent air. "Tell me again… where is this peace you speak of? It is a veil, hiding the bloodshed and suffering of countless souls!"

Despite his fervent appeal, the faces of the lords remained unreadable. It was not out of cruelty—they were not heartless. Rather, they knew too well the truth of the world.

Where light shines, shadows follow. Neither darkness nor light can fully destroy the other. The wars of the Noldor over the long centuries had proved this time and again.

If the forces of darkness pressed too hard, they would be culled. But too much force against shadow often led to darker repercussions. Evil, cornered, lashed out harder.

Elrond spoke again:

"Gandalf, what you say is true, but it is not cause enough for war."

"No!" a voice interrupted.

Kaen had spoken at last.

All eyes turned toward him.

Elrond's brow furrowed. "Kaen, darkness cannot be eradicated. Preserving balance is the best way."

"No, my lord," Kaen said firmly. "The world is not a shade of grey. To speak of peace while letting evil gather strength… is to invite destruction!"

He stood, the fire in his eyes burning like a beacon. After a pause, he said:

"From the dawn of time, we have only united after enduring terrible loss."

"When peace returns, we forget the pain, and let darkness swell in the shadows once again."

"Then, when it has grown strong, it strikes anew—and the cycle repeats. War. Death. Regret. Again and again, an endless spiral."

"Why must we always wait until it is too late? Why not strike first, when the enemy is stirring?"

"Now, darkness stirs once more, and yet we cling to a fragile peace, pretending it is strength."

"To me, peace is a flower watered with blood. The moment we stop bleeding for it, that flower begins to wither."

He looked around at the company.

"And I say this—" his voice lowered, heavy with meaning—"the flower of peace that bloomed four centuries ago… is dying."

"We have only two choices: either we draw our blades before the darkness does, or we die as it strikes first."

Silence fell like snow.

Gandalf's eyes lit up with satisfaction. Finally, he thought, the boy speaks sense.

Galadriel said nothing, but a faint smile touched her lips.

Elrond, for the first time, looked truly stunned.

Saruman turned to Elrond and quipped with a strange expression,

"Your protégé appears to favor war."

Elrond had no reply.

And so they sat, each lost in thought, the weight of Kaen's words pressing down upon them.

Then Gandalf made his move.

From beneath his robes, he drew forth a long, black blade and laid it on the stone table before them.

"This," he said solemnly, "I found in Dol Guldur."

The moment the blade touched the stone, the council gasped.

"The Morgul Blade!"

"That sword belonged to the Witch-king of Angmar," one said. "He was buried with it, sealed in a tomb etched with protective runes. How is it here?"

Gandalf nodded. "It was given to me by Radagast the Brown."

He paused, then added, "He too found it in Dol Guldur."

"Dol Guldur…" the words rolled from their lips like a storm on the horizon.

For the first time, the eyes of the council darkened with gravity.

The Witch-king of Angmar—one of the Ringwraiths, once a mortal king, now a vessel of Sauron's will.

He had carved out the northern realm of Angmar, from which he had waged war against the kingdoms of Arnor in the West, bringing them to ruin.

Though the Witch-king had perished, the dark things he left behind still roamed the world.

The rock trolls of the Troll-woods, the scattered Orc tribes of the north—remnants of his age.

A true lord of evil, whose name alone once shook the realms of Men and Elves.

Now his blade had reappeared, far to the south, within Dol Guldur.

This could not be coincidence.

Gandalf had long warned that a darkness lurked there, but without proof, his warnings were brushed aside.

Until now.

Now, the black sword of Angmar lay before them, undeniable.

Galadriel's voice, serene yet firm, rang through the stillness:

"If this is true… then Mithrandir—your plan to aid the Dwarves in their quest… was right all along."