Through the coordinated efforts of Kaen and Gandalf, the White Council was at last swayed.

Lord Elrond, Saruman, and Galadriel gave their assent to the Dwarves' bold venture—and more than that, they pledged their aid.

After a long and measured debate, the Council's decision was laid bare:

Saruman the White would journey to the Lonely Mountain before Durin's Day, and there lend his strength against the ancient and terrible wyrm.

Gandalf the Grey, however, was entrusted with a new and graver task—he would leave the company and ride north, to search the accursed barrows of the Witch-king, to discover what dark stirrings had awakened in that forsaken place.

Lord Elrond dispatched three hundred Elven warriors from Rivendell. Lady Galadriel, ever generous and vigilant, sent five hundred from Lothlórien.

These eight hundred Elves were no ordinary soldiers—they were of the highest order, elite among their kind, each worth five of any lesser host in skill and resolve.

More could have been sent, of course, had they chosen—but against a foe such as Smaug, numbers mattered little.

A dragon's flame does not distinguish friend from foe—it devours indiscriminately. In such battle, too many warriors only served as fodder for fire.

In the tale we knew, the Council had never lifted a finger to aid the Dwarves' quest.

But history, it seemed, had turned upon a new axis.

Kaen's presence had shifted the course of fate. Now, with the might of Elrond and Galadriel at his back, and with Saruman himself taking to the field, the Battle of the Five Armies would be no more—it would become a Battle of Eight.

The dragon Smaug would face not merely swords and spears, but a White Wizard of mythic might—Saruman, whose power, though bound by old seals, yet shimmered with ancient fury.

At the end of the council, Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel exchanged a glance, speaking not with words, but with a look laden with centuries of wisdom.

Then Elrond rose and spoke solemnly:

"Galadriel and I are bearers of the Elven Rings. We cannot linger long away from the realms we guard."

He turned to Kaen, eyes filled with trust.

"And thus, the command of these eight hundred Elven warriors, we entrust... to you."

He paused, then added with quiet pride:

"As your teacher, I make this petition before the White Wizard Saruman: that Kaen Eowenríel be named a member of the White Council."

At these words, Saruman fell into thought. His gaze turned to Kaen, and a gentle smile formed on his lips.

"Before me stands a man of courage and wisdom," he said. "Why should I deny him? Kaen Eowenríel, I believe in time, you shall become—as your master is—a true guardian of Middle-earth."

Galadriel smiled as well, her voice soft and melodic.

"Child, I welcome you into the White Council."

Gandalf laughed heartily, clapping Kaen's shoulder.

"Well then, we are colleagues now! That means I can trouble you without hesitation from here on!"

Kaen stood, bowed gratefully to Lord Elrond, and looked to the gathered company.

"I shall hold true to my path," he declared. "Ever shall I stand against the shadow, and fight for the freedom of Middle-earth's peoples!"

He turned then to Saruman, voice steady and resolute.

"And to you, Master Saruman—thank you for this chance. I shall not disappoint the faith you have placed in me."

The Council nodded in approval.

Saruman, especially, was well pleased.

Look at this youth, he mused. Handsome, eloquent, powerful, yet humble.

Had he not already sworn himself to Elrond's tutelage, Saruman might have been tempted to claim Kaen as his own pupil.

A human king, gifted in magic, noble of heart and fair of face—how rare such a soul! Even I, Saruman the White, feel a flicker of envy...

Just as the congratulations were flowing, an Elven officer entered the hall, breathless with urgency.

"The Dwarves have left!"

A hush fell. The Council was stunned.

Kaen smacked his forehead.

Just like in the tale of old—Thorin had led his company away during the meeting, stealing away unnoticed.

Curse it, Kaen thought. Here I was gathering an army for you, and you slip away like a thief in the night!

The others exchanged glances, some bewildered, others annoyed.

Saruman's face darkened. His voice was cold.

"Dwarves. Always the same."

Kaen spoke quickly, trying to calm the air.

"Fear not, Master Saruman. I shall ride with my Royal Guard to overtake them, and I will inform Thorin of what has transpired here."

He turned again to Elrond and Galadriel.

"Master, soon the expeditionary force of Eowenría shall arrive here. The Elves may depart alongside them."

He faced the Lady of Lórien.

"Your Grace, the warriors of the Golden Wood can march to the hillfolk of the Anduin River Valley—my army will briefly regroup there."

"I shall ride ahead to greet King Thranduil, and secure safe passage through the Woodland Realm."

Elrond and Galadriel nodded, finding no fault with the plan.

At last, Kaen turned once more to Saruman. He hesitated, then said:

"Revered Master, your wisdom far surpasses mine. I dare not give you command. But I ask only this—stand with the Dwarves against the dragon. Should you triumph, your name shall echo through all the East."

Saruman rose and bowed, a rare gesture from so proud a wizard.

"Wizards do not hunger for renown," he said, smiling. "But for you, I am glad to serve."

Kaen was startled by the gesture.

Gandalf leaned close and whispered,

"Each of us has a charge. Mine is to unite the free peoples. But Saruman—his duty is to stand with kings, and resist the darkness at their side."

"In truth," Gandalf added through a spellbound whisper, "this is the first time Saruman has ever left Isengard to fulfill that oath."

Before Kaen could reply, Saruman's voice rang out—in both their minds:

"I heard that."

Kaen: "…"

Gandalf: "…"

Thus the meeting ended, and Kaen took his leave.

He rode eastward from Rivendell, with a hundred of his Royal Guard at his side, following the Bruinen River, until they reached the foothills of the Misty Mountains.

He remembered what came next in the tale:

Thorin's company, caught in a storm of stone-giants, would stumble into an orc-infested realm—and there nearly meet their doom. Gandalf, arriving in the nick of time, would drive back their foes and rescue them from death.

Then, barely escaping with their lives, they would be ambushed by Azog's warg-riders—only to be saved again by the Great Eagles.

But now, Gandalf had gone north, in search of the Witch-king's tomb.

Thus, that mantle of salvation now fell to Kaen.

Alas, he possessed not Gandalf's mastery of light—the kind that could blind a host of foes in a single flash.

All he had were his blades, his wits, and the strength of a hundred loyal men.

And so he gave the order:

"Release the horses. They shall find their way back to the kingdom. From here, we proceed on foot."

"The mountains are treacherous—high and jagged—and there will be battle within the caves. Better to fight unburdened."

He turned to his men, eyes sharp.

"Remain vigilant. I have a feeling we march into a storm of blood."

Far within the depths of the Misty Mountains, beneath blackened trees and lightless skies, there lay a stone sarcophagus, ancient and still.

Inside it rested a woman—of surpassing beauty and haunting grace, clad in garments of deep violet.

For long had her eyes remained shut, undisturbed by the passage of time.

But now... they opened.

Within them gleamed a flash of purple flame, and from her lips came a whisper like wind over bone:

"One year... you have returned at last."